


walls

by rottenstrawberrymilk



Series: short stories [3]
Category: The Boy (2016 Bell)
Genre: Crying, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Kissing, Mental Instability, Obsessive Behavior, Past Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Physical Abuse, Possessive Behavior, Sexual Tension, Showers, Temper Tantrums, Touch-Starved, Touching, Yandere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:35:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25799026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rottenstrawberrymilk/pseuds/rottenstrawberrymilk
Summary: brahms heelshire x reader short story
Relationships: Brahms Heelshire & Reader, Brahms Heelshire & You, Brahms Heelshire/Original Female Character(s), Brahms Heelshire/Reader, Brahms Heelshire/You
Series: short stories [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2125431
Comments: 31
Kudos: 335





	1. crash

It was cold and wet and raining. 

Feverishly, you grasped at the soaked fabric of your scarf, pulling it tighter around your neck in a vain attempt to keep yourself warmer. With your focus on the scarf, you nearly lost your footing and stumbled, your limp becoming too much to handle for the briefest of moments. You were quick to regain your balance, however, take a deep, trembling breath, and push on through the storm--through the unforgiving night. 

Why did have to be raining and cold tonight? The night you finally broke and bailed completely from everything familiar into a panicked mania where you had no plan and no where to go. 

Shakily, you rubbed a hand over your aching head. You couldn't tell if it was rain or blood dripping down your face, tracing down the bridge of your nose and the curve of your cheeks, gathering at your jawline. It was too dark to tell. You blinked whatever liquid it was out of your eyes. Your head still rang--loudly--overtaking the sound of the raindrops and forcing them into a fuzzy, disorienting background noise that was anything but soothing and all the more eerie. 

Your car, abandoned long ago stayed firmly wedged in the ditch you'd swerved and crashed it into it. One minute you were on a slick, black road, the next you weren't--and that's all you knew. You didn't care either. As long as your legs weren't seriously injured, you could keep going. You could walk forever, knowing full well what hell laid behind you, what horrors you'd be faced with if you dared to turn back and give up. You had to keep going. Otherwise He'll find you. He'll find you and He'll hurt you again, He'll hurt you worse than before. Just the idea of it chilled you more to the bone than the merciless, pelting rain ever could. 

You knew you could have stopped at the little town nearby--the twinkling lights you'd sped past, your foot practically flat to the floor of the car, pinning the gas pedal with it. You could have gotten help there. Or an actual place to stay. But even the slightest risk of being found by Him--of having to see Him again was enough to convince you not to go there. The risk of being found, even if it was a decimal percentage was still too much for you. 

_That's where He'd expect me to go anyways_ , you told yourself as the icy rain soaked further into your clothes and you wrapped your arms around yourself tightly, still trying to adjust to your injured gait. You'd convince yourself of anything as long as it made you feel like you weren't going to freeze to death out here. 

But some of your behavior you couldn't justify, no matter how long you mulled over it. 

You'd left so fast. No one to call (He'd separated you from your family and friends long ago and deleted their contacts in your phone anyways). No actual plan. Nothing to carry with you. Only dressed in an oversized t-shirt and some sweatpants. Maybe it wasn't the best thought out escape plan because it wasn't one at all. It had been a window of opportunity. The briefest of moments. And if you'd hesitated to take advantage of it or stopped to pack your things, it would have disappeared--you were sure of it. 

Thunder crashes seemed to become louder in your ears the more you walked and the ringing in your head seemed to subside bit by bit. Squinting your eyes to keep the rain out of them, you looked up, slightly over the tree line. Lightning flashed and you caught the silhouette of a house--a massive house. It didn't seem too far away and it was the only building you had seen in what felt like miles. 

Maybe whoever lived there would let you stay for the night. And if not? Fuck it, you'd sleep on the fucking porch if you had to, you didn't care. See? Fully thought out escape plans are overrated and dumb anyways...

As you drew closer, you felt more and more intimidated by the looming structure. When doubts began to sneak in, you told yourself again and again that you had no where else to go and _He's_ probably out there right now trying to find you. The quicker you can get off the open road, all alone, in the dark, the better, even if you have to go to a complete stranger's house. 

Eventually, you reached what appeared to be the gate at the start of a long driveway leading up to the victorian era house. You found it somewhat strange that the gates, gothic in nature, were busted wide open--like somebody had tried to get out as fast as they could. Still, you managed to find the positive side of it all. With the gate open, it'd be easier to get to the house, right? Right. So, with another shaking breath you started up the winding road, already feeling relieved once you were off the main road. 

It wasn't that bad of a walk up the winding, narrow path. There were fresh tracks in the mud, which lead you to believe someone might have been home--or at least would come back home soon. Either way, you were a bit wary. Ideally, you would have liked for the house to have been long abandoned so you didn't have to leave a trace of yourself anywhere for him to find.

 _But beggars can't be choosers_ , you told yourself as the manor grew larger and larger the closer you came to it. 

The house seemed well maintained for the most part, looking anything but abandoned. You were relieved to get out of the rain as you approached the sheltered, dry doorstep. Thunder struck again as you drew closer to the ornamental front door. As you brought yourself to knock, you noticed that the doors were already slightly open. Once again, the thought of somebody leaving this place in a hurry crossed your mind. You figured that was a bit of a red flag, but decided to let it slide. 

_Maybe they just ran out for groceries or something._

Either way, it was clear that someone was home or would be home soon. You wondered if you should just let yourself in or if you should sit by the door and wait. Even though you were out of the rain, the cold still nipped at your fingertips and skin and was becoming increasingly unbearable. You'd have stayed outside if you truly thought you could have weathered the elements any longer. So, tentatively, you pushed open the door wider, stepping inside. 

Once you were inside, you felt a bit bad about dripping all over the wooden floor. You wrapped your arms around yourself as another violent set of a shivers possessed you for a few moments. Trembling, you gazed around the house before you, observing everything, trying to identify any possible threats. Overall, you just found that it was even more old fashioned on the inside than it was on the outside. It looked as though everything had once been neat, and proper, and tidy and gleaming. Key word being "once". The house would have been gorgeous, were it not for the blood on the floor and the broken wood both in the walls and floorboards, and the general ruinous state. It looked as though a literal tornado had blown through, knocking things off tables and smashing them to the ground, punching holes in walls, ripping portraits from their spots and mercilessly stomping over top of them once they were on the ground.

_Maybe someone broke in and tried to rob the place? Maybe the robber was whoever left in a hurry. But...there's no one here? So why so panicked?_

You still had yet to say a word or call out to see if anyone was in the house. You couldn't figure out if it would be worse to get a response or nothing at all. But still, you had nothing to lose, so you moved the wet scarf from your mouth and nose and cleared your throat softly, every movement sounding near thunderous in the eerie near silence. 

"Hello?" you called out, your voice sounding so frail and alone in the darkness. It echoed slightly, before fading off, until all there was left was the soft pattering of rain on the roof and the gentle drip of leaking water.   
  
No response. 

Dread weighing down on you, you found yourself climbing up the stairs nearby, figuring it was better to check out the second floor as well, just to put your mind at ease for the night. Your wet hands dragged along the railing and your injuries made themselves known once more with every step. By the time you were at the top, you were panting, and it wasn't because you were out of shape. The pain had become unbearable once again in your leg and you had to take a moment to gather yourself and slow your breathing before continuing on. 

As you explored the upper floor, your uneven, heavy steps were the only form of company you had. It seemed like all the bedrooms were located upstairs and you didn't bother to check any of the shut doors. Instead, you had your gaze set on the one open door near the end of the hall. Biting back your shaking breath, you entered it before freezing almost immediately, with a sharp gasp. 

On the floor laid a man.

_Maybe somebody didn't just break in--maybe they tried to kill this guy too._

Key word being "tried". Because the man before you was still breathing. It was very faint however, stirring his coarsely haired chest only slightly. You swore you saw his eyelids flutter as you dared to come closer. Your brow furrowed with a mix of confusion and curiosity when you noticed the cracked remains of a white mask clinging to his heavily scarred and disfigured face. It was strange, but you'd rather focus on trying to help him than on the odd accessory. 

Your voice came, shaking and scared, as you dropped down to your knees to get closer to him. "Oh god, oh fuck, hold on. Hold on. You're okay, hold on." 

His hands were near his abdomen, holding onto something--or maybe covering it? You weren't sure which but it was clear to you that he'd been stabbed with whatever he was covering. The blood gathering on his murky, off-white tank top was a pretty big indicator as well. Slowly, you reached towards him, not wanting to scare him or threaten him. To be honest, you weren't even sure if he was conscious enough to realize that you were even next to him. He groaned something in a gravelly, rasping voice that you didn't quite catch and his arm moved slightly. Worried he'd worsen his own condition, you grabbed both of his wrists to keep him from doing anything rash, leaning over him to do so. His eyes still stayed glued up upon the ceiling, almost tragic and heartbroken in nature, reddened by dried tears and a rather concerning hemorrhage. 

"Don't take it out. Don't pull it out, okay? Hold on...let me just call an ambulance," you told him, your voice shaking still. Instinctually, you went to reach for the phone that you usually kept in the waistband of your underwear. A sense of regret and embarrassment washed over you when you remembered that you'd long ditched your phone to make sure _He_ couldn't contact or track you at all. "Is there a phone in the house?" you asked the man beneath your trembling hands. 

He murmured something again, blinking slowly as his gaze began to fall away from the ceiling. "Greta...?" he asked, his voice raspy. 

"Is there a phone here?" you asked again, an increasingly panicked tone in your own voice. He seemed to be borderline delusional. He'd apparently lost a lot of blood... You doubted you'd get a satisfactory answer out of him. You started to get up before his hand shot up and his long, rough fingers wrapped around your wrist, yanking you back down.

At the sudden, unwanted to touch, your blood ran ice cold and piercing pain shot up your arm. 

"OW, _FUCK_ ," you hissed out, pulling away, tears springing to your eyes. You'd gotten so caught up in the stabbed man's injuries that you'd completely forgotten about your own. 

When you looked back down, you realized he was looking back up at you, his eyes more focused although his pupils were extremely dilated. His breathing became heavier as he lifted his head slightly to gaze directly at you. It seemed like he wasn't able to keep his strength as his head suddenly fell back to the ground and a low, pained groan came from him. Softly, he whispered. 

" _Please..._ " 

Pity swallowed you whole. Even if you couldn't get an ambulance, you could still help him. You just hoped his blood wouldn't be on your hands if he didn't make it--it was the last thing you needed on your mind, especially with how poorly you were already faring. You reached up to unwind your scarf from your neck, intending to use it to compress the man's wound. The key was to be quick and make sure he didn't lose any more blood than he already had prior to your arrival. You tried not to think of what would have happened if you hadn't come into the house and had settled on the porch.

"Okay, okay," you told him, trying to set his own mind at ease. It was obvious that he was distressed, even if he was too weak to show it and you didn't want to stress him out anymore than you already might have. "Just let me..."

Slowly, your hands went to the hand--the handle of the screwdriver buried in his side. Double ow...who the fuck comes into a house armed with a screwdriver in an attempt to rob and kill someone? Wouldn't it have been easier and more convenient to use a knife? Or something more reasonable? It was certainly a strange, desperate choice in weapon that didn't clarify what had happened before you'd arrived any more than anything else you'd seen so far. You hoped whoever did this to the man before you wasn't coming back to check on him and finish the job. 

Giving him a bit of a soft nudge to warn him, you found a good grip on the tool and slowly pulled it out. You'd expected him to scream out in pain, but he only let out more, drawn out pained moans and hitched breaths. It had to have been absolutely excruciating. Quickly, you tossed the screwdriver to the side, holding one of your hand tightly against the wound. Your palm became wet with his blood. Luckily, it didn't seem to be overly excessive, meaning that nothing important had ruptured and no major arteries happened to get punctured. Using your teeth to straighten out the scarf more, you wrapped it around his midsection, squeezing your arms under his back in order to wind the fabric around a good few times. You hoped it was tight enough to suffice.   
  
He moaned out a name again. "Greta..." 

_Is that who stabbed him? Or is she here too? Did whoever break in do something worse to her? Is she dead? I didn't see anyone else here..._ You found yourself troubled with the realization that you just didn't know. 

Your hand still pressed upon his abdomen, as you were paranoid you hadn't wrapped it tight enough. The man continued to lay there, but his breathing evened out and started to become more stable as the minutes passed. To say you were relieved was a heavy understatement. But you also found yourself suddenly exhausted, your adrenaline and anxiety fading away as you began to feel the ache and burn of your own wounds and bruises. 

Slowly, you shifted at his side so your back was pressed to the side of the mattress nearby. You didn't want the man to grab you again if you went to get up, so you figured it was safer to just stay on the ground rather than risk getting triggered. You wish you knew what else you could do for him, if only for the sake of occupying yourself and your hands once more. 

A heavy sigh left you as you leaned your head back and shut your eyes. Your head slowly began to drop back down with drowsiness. 

The blood that had been running down your face had finally dried.


	2. deal

It wasn't pleasurable waking up, stiff and aching. You stretched out slightly, a harsh sigh leaving your mouth as you gripped sheets between your fingers. Wait? Sheets? You sat up, blinking the sleep from your eyes and rubbing an arm over your face. Hadn't you fallen asleep leaning against the side of the bed? You didn't recall ever actually getting into it. You yawned as you kicked the sheets off your legs. 

When your bleary gaze drifted over to the floor beside the bed, you couldn't tell if it was relieving or not to find that the stranger from the night before with half a mask was gone. The only indicator of him once being there was a bloodstain on the floor, partway soaked into nearby carpet. Hopefully that meant he wasn't some hallucination your brain managed to spit up after your little accident in the ditch. You had been rather shaken that night... Maybe it was your blood? 

"H-Hello?" you called out, your voice hoarse and your throat dry.

No response.

You did a quick check over of your own body, sliding to a sitting position on the side of the bed, only finding a few slashes or scratches and some bruising here and there. Nothing deep enough to produce that much blood. Your hand drifted up over your face, over your skin, fingers brushing over the dried blood on your forehead and matting in your hair. Shifting off the bed, you stood up straight, immediately wincing at the dull ache in your sides and back. You prayed to God there was nothing internal going on and all your injuries were purely skin deep. 

Lifting your head, you took another quick glance around the room, almost expecting the stranger from the night before to be standing in the shadows or something creepy like that. "Hello?" you tried again, your voice still holding a bit of a shakiness. When you received no answer, you gave a bit of a huff.

_I should probably leave. Find some help. Forget this whole thing ever happened._

Warily, you pushed open the slightly agape door, peering out into the hallway. Upon finding nothing in it, you crossed over to another room with an open door. You were hoping to find a bathroom or somewhere with a proper mirror so you could clean yourself up a little. Luck seemed to be on your side after all the misfortune you'd faced the night before, making up for the way it'd wronged you. There was an extension to the room--a very clean looking bathroom. The room itself was a mess, torn apart, drawers ripped open, sheets of the bed ravaged. A stray, coiled wire, looking like it belonged to a phone, was strewn across the floor, mangled and in two pieces. You didn't really want to think about what might have gone down here. You just wanted to wash up and get the fuck out.

Clearing your throat, you pushed open the bathroom door, hesitating, before shutting it behind you--just for the sake of feeling more secure. You winced when you finally looked into the mirror, a bit embarrassed about your underestimation of how bad your injuries were. There was a gash across your cheek that seemed to cross up to your head as well and deepen. A streak of blood from your nose smeared across your face, and figured there was probably blood to match it on the back of your hand. Under your left eye was a nasty bruise, although you were pretty sure it might have not even been from the car wreck. A lot of the bruises had come from...from...

You seemed to blank out for a second, staring into the mirror, your hands tightening on the brim of the sink. When the pipes inside the walls seemed to make a sudden noise you broke out of your trance. You turned on the faucet, doing your best not to look into the mirror any longer as you scrubbed away the grime and gore from your skin. As water dripped from your face, back down into the sink, you let the hot water run over your fingertips and under your nails, clearing away dried blood--also from the night before. You weren't sure if it was yours or the man's, or maybe a mix. Either way, it was nice to see clean skin again. 

Quickly, you dried your face with the end of a nearby towel. You didn't bother looking in the mirror again, not wanting to think about the bruises any longer. You made your way back out of the bathroom and the room and into the hallway. It was a straight shot to the stairs leading back down to the first floor of the house. It looked a lot different in the daylight, but it was even easier to find the front door once again and make a timely exit. Unfortunately, after pulling on the handle vainly, you found that the ornate door was firmly shut and locked. 

_Okay...no need to panic...the keys are probably around here somewhere. Don't need to know why it's locked or how. Just get out of here._

You turned away and began to wander around, hands brushing over wooden tables and surfaces, eyes darting over walls in an attempt to spot any glint of metal. You had no luck in the foyer, nor in the kitchen, so you took your searching farther into the house. You were really hoping you'd find the keys on the first floor, as you weren't interested in checking out every single room on the second. You ended up somewhere past what appeared to be the billiards room. It looked as though a fight had gone down in there as well.

Broken shards from a huge mirror on the wall and porcelain were scattered upon the floor. Further inspection had you stumbling upon the body of a man--not the one from the night before. Unlike the man you'd nursed previously, this man was very cold and very dead and looked well on his way to decomposition. You put a hand to your mouth and nose, looking away and squeezing your eyes shut. You really weren't in the mood to throw up all over the floor. For a moment, you lost the feeling in your legs, and you quickly knelt down, your head going light. After a brief moment kneeled upon the floor, you opened your eyes slightly again, catching sight of a doll body with no head. A piece of paper laid next to it, upside down.   
  
Your curiosity got the better of you and you pulled it over, turning it over to read. At the same time, you turned your back to the body, using the wall to stand back up and lean on. Your eyes darted over the paper, trying to make sense of the clean, typed words. It just seemed to be a list of rules on how to take care of somebody named 'Brahms'. Weird. 

When you got the sense in your head back as well as your balance, you walked a large arc around the body, doing your best not to look at it again. You wanted to investigate the broken mirror, which seemed to have been covering a passage inside the walls themselves. You found it strange--you'd never seen any architecture in a home like that before. Maybe it was a British thing, you weren't exactly sure. 

_What the fuck is going on, like, for real??_

Almost to convince yourself more, you murmured out loud. "I have to get the fuck outta here...I'm already way too invested in whatever fuckery this is..." Your words, although quiet, still seemed to fill the room. You began to back out, the paper still absentmindedly clenched in your hands.

As you reached the doorway, your eyes still trained nervously on the open, dark passageway behind the walls, your back hit something solid. You turned around quickly, almost jumping. You bit back a scream, clapping a hand over your mouth. Before you stood the man from the night before, towering over you, arms slack at his side. He didn't seem to be threatening or aggressive or anything like that, but it still made you wary that he seemingly came out of no where. And so _quiet_ too. Your hand dropped from your mouth to your chest, your heart still racing. 

His mask, although severely cracked, seemed to be back in one piece rather than in half. He'd put it back together with a sort of delicate care you couldn't imagine in those rough, large hands of his. Your scarf was no longer wrapped around his midsection--it had been replaced with proper bandages. 

Thank God you were too frozen to make a run for it, especially considering the dull ache now prominent in your leg. You couldn't have outrun him anyways. Between the fucked leg and having no where else to go, there was a mutual understanding between the two of you of what probably would happen if you made an attempt. Whoever this man was, chances were he knew the house a lot better than you as well. 

"Brahms," you eventually said, your voice strained, just to break the thick, suffocating silence. "Brahms? That's you, right?" 

He tilted his head to the side slightly, thick, curly, dark hair following the motion. He gave you the slightest of nods. And suddenly, he grabbed your wrist, his hand tight around it. You flinched, but didn't dare pull away, not wanting to injure it any worse. You bit the inside of your cheek as he began to pull you forwards.

You cleared your throat to get his attention. "C-careful," you told him when his dark eyes met yours. "I'm n-not in such great shape either. Car wreck. I-I got in one last night." You couldn't help but almost completely overshare the minute you could, your nervousness compelling you to talk. It might have been for the sake of hearing your own voice, but it might have also been an attempt to appeal to whatever sense of pity or empathy this 'Brahms' might have. 

Unprompted, he suddenly reached one of your hands up to cup one of his porcelain, cracked cheeks. You stiffened before letting out a nervous giggle, despite how weird everything was. What else were you supposed to do anyways? You had a feeling if you made any sudden movements it wouldn't end well for you. 

"You're not like the last one. You won't hurt me like _she_ did," came an almost child-like voice from behind the mask. To say you were shocked was a bit of an understatement. You hadn't expected... _that_ from a man his size and build. It wasn't his real voice obviously--you'd heard his real one last night when he'd been delirious and rambling nonsense. You tried to keep the alarm off your face. 

_Just stay calm. Stay calm. This dude obviously isn't...well._

"Uhm...Greta?" you asked, and almost immediately regretted doing so when his grip tightened on your wrist. You winced, opening your mouth to further explain, your words slow and gentle. "Y-You said that name last night. Was she the one that stabbed you?"   
  
The man in the mask--Brahms--nodded. His grip seemed to loosen just slightly, which was good enough for you. You held back a relieved sigh before continuing on. 

"And did she kill that...that other guy over there too?" you tossed your head off in the direction of the body, your eyes darting to it and back to Brahms nervously. 

Brahms looked at you for what felt like a very longe time before he nodded again, somewhat meekly this time. 

A bit of a sigh left your lips. Had you the use of your hand you'd have put it to the bridge of your nose. "Jesus fuck..." was all you could manage, suddenly feeling very relieved that you hadn't come into the house any earlier. God knows whatever this 'Greta" person would have done to you. 

He flinched--at your cursing, you figured--and you gave a quick 'sorry' as an apology. Finally, he let your wrists go, and you slipped your hands away from his. Your fingers tightened around the sheet of paper you were still grasping. It was more of a comfort now than anything else, giving you something to do with your hands. Brushing some loose hair back behind your ear, you glanced around the room again.

"Sooo...I assume this is your house, right?" you found yourself asking. 

Brahms nodded again. You couldn't tell if you preferred his silent nodding over his strange use of a child's voice or not. Both made you feel somewhat uneasy. 

Your nervousness seemed to kick back in as you shifted on your feet and looked back up at him again. "Look, I'm gonna be honest with you. Things aren't that...great for me. I don't have a car anymore, I don't have anywhere else to go, and quite frankly right now it's looking a little like my life is pretty much over." You took in another breath, his silence only compelling you to share more as you wrapped a hand around your arm a bit awkwardly. "I don't know if it's too much to ask if I could just...I don't know. Stay here? Just for a few days, I promise. At least until I get my-" you bit your tongue before you cursed again, and wisely chose a different word. "-stuff figured out?" 

Brahms head tilted to the side again. You couldn't exactly read the expression in his eyes. "Only if you follow the rules," he responded eventually, in that same child-like voice. He crossed his arms as he looked down on you, but if anything, he actually seemed kinda pleased about having your company. 

Relief rushed over you, despite your discomfort flaring again at his voice. You could ignore the voice, though. The guy's huge, wearing a doll mask--honestly the strange voice he put on was one of the least weirdest things about him. You couldn't really pass any sort of judgement on him anyways and you certainly couldn't afford to be picky about your company. _Especially_ when you needed his help and shelter this badly. 

"The...the rules?" you asked a bit dumbly, before realizing he was referencing the paper still in your hands. Still, he leaned forwards and tapped it, erasing any doubt in your mind. 

You lifted it to read it over silently once more. Just like Brahms, the list of rules were odd and seemed more fitting for babysitting a child than instructions on how to behave around this fully grown man. You figured he'd probably have to help you with a few of them at first (like where the hell whatever traps you were supposed to clean out daily were), but if all you had to do was follow some little rules for a safe, dry place to stay you didn't mind. The house was generally super nice, too, so you were surprised he hadn't asked any more of you. So what if the dude wanted a peck on the cheek every night? 

You looked back up from the paper and to Brahms before giving him a brisk nod of your own. 

"Alright, deal."


	3. together

Brahms apparently dealt with the body in the room at some point. One day it was there. The next it wasn't. You didn't ask how. You didn't want to know how. You just knew he did. In your opinion, as long as you didn't overthink it, it was fine. It'd been weird to have even spent the night in the house, now knowing there'd been a dead body downstairs the whole time. So at least it was finally gone now.

The only indication of it ever having existed was new rug that suddenly appeared over the floorboards where the blood stain should have been. 

Was it kind of shady that Brahms was able to hide a body with such ease? Yes. Super fucking shady. Straight up suspicious. A red flag even--multiple red flags, actually. But you didn't want to stay in a house with a dead body in it anyways and it really was none of your fucking business. You'd take the apathetic stance on this issue thank you very much. Sometimes it was just better to let things go anyways. Especially under your special circumstances. 

You weren't one to ask questions outside of that anyways. Not about the body, not about Brahms, and _certainly_ not about the rather strange set of rules you were supposed to be following either. You didn't have much of a problem with them, even if they were odd, actually. If anything, it was a distraction to you--some semblance of a routine that grounded you. It was hard to stay grounded lately. You feared letting your mind wander in this big, old empty house.

It wasn't so bad staying here. Just for a few days, obviously, but so far, there were honestly worse things you'd gone through. Brahms wasn't a bad companion either. Even despite the creepy, white mask he wore constantly and the regular occurrence of being unable to find him for hours on end (no matter how hard you searched or yelled for him). He was actually kinda sweet outside his weird habits. You felt like he was a good guy. 

Once, when he'd decided to make an evening appearance unprompted, he'd pulled you by your hand into a room on the bottom floor--the one with the grand, shining piano in it. Then, he simply stood there before you, arms slack at his side, waiting. You didn't know what he was waiting for and only nervously glanced around the room. Before you could even figure out what to say to him, he cut you off, crossing his arms and demanding that you play him something on the piano. 

"We could just put in, like..." your gaze had darted around the room, trying to find an out from going anywhere near the piano. "Like...one of your records? And play that instead? Y'know?" 

Stubbornly, almost childishly, Brahms shook his head 'no'. "Play for me," he demanded again, the pitch in his voice growing whinier and higher with irritation. Once again, you felt the same chill of discomfort sweep over you, making goosebumps rise on your arms. You tried not to pull a face.

"If you talk in your normal voice, I'll try," you responded instead, your voice soft. "I've heard it before. I...I know that's not what you really sound like..." 

Brahms seemed to freeze up. You wondered if he was shocked about you having heard his real voice beforehand. You wouldn't have been surprised if he remembered little to nothing of the night you found him and nursed him back to decent health. Eventually, he snapped out of it, tilting his head slightly to the side.

"Wh...why?" he eventually got out, his voice sounding quieter and more unsure--even harder to hear behind the porcelain mask. The childish voice he used seemed to falter. 

You gave a bit of a nervous giggle, hoping to defuse some of the tension. "I like it," you admitted to him. "I-I mean you don't _have_ to but...I just like your normal voice a lot more. Suits you better." You looked him up and down with a shrug of your shoulders. "At least that's what I think." 

Quietly, he considered for a few moments, regarding you through dark, narrowed eyes--half shadowed by the high arch of the mask's brow. Awkwardly, you cleared your throat, wrapping a hand around one of your wrists and breaking eye contact with him. Holy fuck this guy was so...starey. 

"Okay." His voice was even quieter now, but the whining pitch to it had dropped off completely and it sounded much closer to the voice you'd heard the few nights before.

His willingness to change so quickly for you soothed you slightly, and some of the stiffness left your muscles upon hearing what was close enough to a proper man's voice leaving...well...a man. You felt bad for nitpicking something he probably couldn't help or turned into a habit...but it was just one little thing and you promised yourself you wouldn't say anything about anything else. Not the mask, not the blood on his cardigan, not his unkempt, wild appearance. 

With a smile, you started towards the piano, intending to make good on your promise to him. He seemed to visibly perk up and followed you over--way too close for comfort. He was basically breathing down your neck at all times when he wasn't hiding away somewhere, and now was no different. Abandonment issues much...

"I'll _try_ to play for you," you told him, as you came to a stop in front of the piano bench. Unconsciously, your arms crossed over your chest a bit embarrassedly. "Although...I really, genuinely, on God, don't know anything about playing a piano. I actually can't play any instruments at all, just a warning." Here came the rambling again. You couldn't stop it. Like waterfalls coming out your mouth. "I mean when I was younger...a little bit I guess. But not really. My parents didn't make me stick to anything and let me quit pretty easy--but, I'm sure you've...probably had lessons, right? Why don't you teach me? Like how to play?" 

Slowly, he responded, looking extremely confused, even behind porcelain. "Teach...you?" You couldn't tell if it was because he was still focusing on using his real voice or if he was taken aback by your suggestion. Was it too far? Was it weird to ask? You didn't think so.

You nodded and folded your hands in front of your body, intertwining your fingers together just for the sake of having something to occupy your hands as you rocked slightly on your heels. He stared down at you for what felt like a long, long time before eventually, he returned the gesture with his own brisk nod.

"Yes, I quite like that," he eventually said, his adult voice becoming a lot more prominent. "We'll play together." 

"Sure, whatever you want," you responded eagerly, just happy that you managed to already get this far in compromising with who you thought was going to be rather stubborn company. He was odd, but at least he was a little bit open-minded. You could work with that, despite whatever else he had going on. 

You words seemed to perk him up even more. When he stood up straighter, it actually didn't intimidate you all that much more. He nudged you to the side with a broad, strong shoulder to sit down on the bench in front of the piano. Angling his head slightly back so he could look at you, he patted the spot next to him and you obeyed, sitting down next to him. Your arm was pressed to his. Weirdly enough, you didn't mind it. 

He spent a good amount of time teaching you the basics--mostly which key was what and which note they made. Not surprisingly, he was a sucky teacher. You'd kinda gotten that impression from him when you asked him to elaborate on something and he groaned childishly like you'd just asked him to run a marathon. Still, you'd take what you could get, and part of your goal was to prove to him that you really couldn't play piano and he probably didn't want to hear you ever attempt it. But Brahms was still ultimately stubborn. 

That didn't stop him from getting frustrated however, when you messed up a sequence of keys he taught you. 

"Here," he'd said, a bit huffy. 

You'd been hoping he'd make you stand up and listen to him play, but instead, he pulled you onto his lap, shifting the bench farther away so you could fit properly on top of him. Before you had time to so much as stutter or blush, either one of his arms went around you as he rested his chin in the crook of your neck to peer over your shoulder and see the piano keys better. You'd wanted to move, feeling a bit startled, but stopped when he began to play--not wanting to interrupt him and potentially piss him off even more.

Although he was obviously frustrated, his playing didn't reflect that. Although what Brahms played, hands light and nimble and skilled over ivory keys, was nothing more than a simple, little melody, there seemed to be a sort of sadness to it. A sort of melancholy that made you feel a twinge of pity for him, a twinge of pity for...just everything in general. Apparently, he must have noticed your enjoyment of his little performance and basked in the glow of your approval, continuing with a different, more complex song he seemed to know like the back of his hand. 

You'd never been one for classical music or piano or anything like that but...part of you could have sat there on this borderline stranger's lap and listened all day and all night and the day after that as well. It was an almost trance-like state he put you into. 

Your eyes wandered hazily to his hands. You noticed burn scars on them. How had you not noticed them before? They were pretty hard to miss. You blinked, slowly, feeling bad for him all over again. What the hell had this man been through? Apparently burned and almost stabbed to death? Poor guy... His odd habits didn't seem as off putting anymore. Something terrible had happened to Brahms, a long time ago, probably. 

Trauma wasn't exclusive to just you. Brahms seemed to have his fair share as well. And it made you feel closer to him, almost, realizing that there was reason behind his madness--behind the mask and the childish tone he habitually used. 

_A coping mechanism_ , you realized. _It's a coping mechanism._

Soon, you noticed he'd stopped playing. Gently, curiously, you took one of his large, long hands in yours, holding it in your softer palms. You turned it over, observing the burns and rubbing a thumb over the rough, textured skin. Brahms flinched, but didn't pull away. You turned your head back over your shoulder to look at him.

"What happened to you?" you asked, your voice soft.

Brahms leaned forwards unexpectedly, the hard porcelain lips of his mask meeting your soft, human ones. The hand that wasn't in your own, once laying idle upon the piano keys, shifted off to press upon your waist, feeling the twist in your body, his fingers tightening on you as he pulled you closer in his lap, more snugly against his own body. 

Your hand left his scarred one as you put it up to his moon white, cracked cheek, tilting your head to the side slightly to relieve the pressure of his hard, bruising lips against yours. His trailed porcelain kisses from the corner of your mouth to your jawline, down to your further exposed throat. His scarred hand, now freed from your delicate grasp joined his other at your waist, before both began to drift upwards. A soft groan escaped Brahms as you squirmed against him slightly, trying to get more comfortable, shivering from his icy kiss on your skin. His hands stayed steady on you, working under and up your oversized shirt, trailing slowly over your ribs. You sharply inhaled when his thumbs brushed over your chest, before kneading into you--gently at first. You could hear his breath heavy in his mask, feeling his chest heaving against your back, as a low, wanting moan slipped from him.  
  
Suddenly, he backed the bench away from the piano. You flinched at the scraping of the legs against the floorboards, but Brahms didn't even seem to notice. He stood up, wrapping his arms around you, turning you in them and hauling you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing. Your blood ran cold when you no longer felt secure on the ground and you gripped the back of his cardigan tightly. He wouldn't let you fall. But that wasn't the issue. 

_Fuck, am I starting to spiral?_

Brahms made his way towards the nearby couch. Your heart was pounding in your chest as your back hit the cushions, knocking the wind from your lungs. He crawled over top of you, planting either of his arms around you, caging you.

And that was when you began to panic. 

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._

Trapped. Trapped. Trapped. 

Brahms apparently wasn't very good at reading your face or your suddenly stiff body language. His hands went to the hem of your oversized shirt again, gripping it tightly as he began to lift it. He leaned forwards as he revealed more and more of your body, pushing his tinted, harsh lips upon the sensitive spot where your jaw and neck met. 

Tears started to gather in your eyes. You couldn't blink them back. The pounding of blood in your ears becoming near deafening, you suddenly put shaking hands up to Brahms' chest. He halted, your shirt still tight in his hands, halfway up your abdomen. Your trembling became more violent as his mask shifted away from your cheek and he looked straight down upon you, cocking his head to the side in a confused manner. 

Through hitched breath, you murmured, "Brahms...I...I can't do this." Your brows contorted with obvious distress as you put your hands to your face to cover it momentarily. You couldn't tell whether you were burning with shame or fear or fluster or a mixture of all three. 

Before he even had the chance to respond or do anything else, you went to push him off, trying to get up so you could get away from him. He didn't budge. He grabbed your wrist--an increasingly concerning and favorite habit of his. Blood ran ice cold in your veins when his grip tightened on you and you sank back down into the couch, unable to find the core strength to hold your body up. 

Crying now, you tried again. "Brahms?" you whispered out, more of a plea than a question. 

Almost reluctantly, he suddenly let go of you. On his own, he got up off of you, allowing you to sit up again. You slid to the end of the couch and quickly stood up on the off chance he changed his mind. You didn't think he'd do that to you. He wouldn't, right? But you'd thought the same of the exact man who'd driven you far away to this house in the first place. The exact man who'd indirectly driven you into Brahms' arms. 

He stared at you as you tried to find an explanation to explain your own sudden irrational madness. You couldn't think of one. You didn't _owe_ him one. You needed to go be alone for a bit, oh fucking God.. Almost twitchy in nature, you glanced around the room.

"I'm sorry, I just..." you took in another shallow, shaking breath before you shook your head. "I'm gonna go shower. Bye."

With those brisk words, you darted around him and rushed up the stairs, your hand over your mouth. 

You felt his gaze burning into your back all the way up the steps. 

It was a strangely familiar feeling.


	4. 2hrs

After your shower you felt a lot better. Incredible how standing still under a hot stream of water with your eyes shut, arms wrapped around yourself somehow calmed you down better than any drink or hit ever could. Staring at yourself in the bathroom mirror, towel wrapped around yourself tight, you shifted a hand over the gathered condensation, leaving a long, clear streak across the surface. You caught a glimpse of your dark, tired eyes in the glass and turned your face to the side slightly, surveying what you could. Bruises still hadn't faded all the way but it looked like the gashes were beginning to. You looked away from the mirror, your hands gripping the porcelain counter. The stark white reminded you of the problem at hand.

Shower heaven over time to deal with real life.

You couldn't help but feel bad about bailing on Brahms completely after giving into, maybe even liking, his earlier advances. The last thing you wanted to do was confuse this poor dude anymore than you already were. And he wasn't anything like your ex-boyfriend either. Obviously. At least he didn't seem that way. I mean you'd only known for a few days, but you thought you could read him pretty easy. Part of you wanted to think he wouldn't--he couldn't--hurt you. But the way he sometimes grabbed you...it made you think otherwise.

You assumed it was your newfound paranoia and old traumas and ghosts coming back for you and mixing all together to overall ruin any chance of pleasure you had. Your own boldness and obvious desire when you were all alone frightened you. It wasn't feelings you had for the owner (?) of this house. More just...an attraction. You'd clicked with him almost instantly only a few days ago for a reason. Some people just were meant to go together. You didn't believe in love in first sight--but you sure did believe in pheromones. 

But still, you hadn't usually been one to give mixed signals like that. If you wanted something, you'd get it. If you didn't, then you'd make that clear too. At least, that's how you used to be, all before...

Through the hot steam remaining, you glanced at a large bruise on your arm. Not from the car crash. From before that. 

You buried your face in your hands.

You used to be so fucking cool. You used to be so fucking happy. And now here you were in this stupid, giant house with a big, eerie man not knowing what you wanted and who you were anymore and what would happen to you. Not knowing where to go--not having a place to even consider. 

Lost. That's what you were. 

On top of the war within your own head and subconscious came even more guilt. You felt bad for already staying with Brahms for so long, with nothing to offer to him and nothing to real show for it. You'd only meant to stay for a few nights but it quickly seemed to be turning into a week and the last thing you wanted to do was overstay your welcome. You wondered if once you left you could come back and get him some kind of money as payback. But what use would he have for the couple hundred dollars you could scrape together from your bank account? The fact that he lived in this house suggested that it would be mere pocket change for someone like him. 

Ideally, you just wanted to get out of here as soon as possible. It was only making your guilt worse and you were sure Brahms didn't need any sort of burden in his arms. And to be honest...the last thing you wanted to do was accidentally get attached to him or start trusting him. You weren't ready to trust any one for a really long time. Not after all that had happened only a few days ago. You didn't want to deify him, love him in your head, only to realize how disappointing his reality was. You didn't want to give him the chance to fail you.

The only problem with getting out was that you still had yet to get your head on straight and find a safe place to stay. You had no friends (excluding Brahms of course if you could even really call him that...) or relatives nearby and you had only those couple hundred dollars in your bank account to your name. Which you were terrified to get to anyways as your account wasn't separate and taking out money could alert _him_ and possibly bring him and the cops right to you. Could cops do that? You figured they could trace any withdraw you made from that account, honestly you didn't want to risk it. You didn't even have a fucking change of clothes. 

The heavy steam was starting to make you light headed. You readjusted the towel around your body, wrapping it tighter and shouldering open the bathroom door. You jumped, instinctually, when you saw Brahms in the corner of the room, arms crossed as he sulked, leaning against a wall. He looked you up and down through dark, narrowed eyes as you tried to catch your breath. A heavy sigh came from you as you leaned back against your own wall.

"Hey...you scared me." You let out a bit of a nervous laugh, trailing off, before clearing your throat. "I know it's a bit of a long shot, like a super long shot, miles long, but do you have any extra clothes in the house? Like, I won't need them for long, I mean. I'll go out and try to find a store today to get some more but just...for now. Like temporary." Why were you such a fucking stuttering mess, oh my _God_. 

His head inclined to the side slightly as his coarsely haired arms came uncrossed. "Out? You're leaving me?" he responded in the child's voice. 

You stiffened up again. Apparently your face betrayed your feelings because Brahms cleared his own throat, averting eye contact with you and continuing. "You can't," he said, his voice considerably lower, but uneasy, like he was still unused to it. 

Although momentarily you'd been set as ease again by his willingness to try to change his voice for your shallow comfort, you were once again left disturbed when you fully processed his words. They were familiar, used time and time again by the same man who'd left bruises on you before the crash into the ditch. It shook you to your core.

"Th-there's no food in the house, anyways, Brahms," you quickly said, hoping to rid the room of the horrible tension that the man in the mask had just created. Your fingers clenched tighter at the towel clinging to your body. 

"No. You can't leave. The rules..." 

A sigh left you. "I know. I know. But I'm assuming whoever was delivering groceries before isn't doing it anymore. At least I think." 

You took Brahms silence as a 'yes'. He held that silence for a good few moments before he seemed to frustratedly kick at the floorboards. "You can't leave me alone," he said, in a shaking voice that very much suggested he might have been on the verge of tears. That was enough to make you feel fucking terrible all over again.

Tucking the towel more securely so it'd stay on it's own, you spoke, your voice soft. "Oh, Brahms..." a bit awkwardly, you eventually held up your arms for him. You were aware that Brahms was extremely mentally unstable and fragile despite his stature and demeanor. You'd been quick to forget that there was a reason he was like this, a fucked up, horrible reason. And you wouldn't forget it again. 

You promised yourself to be easier on him, try to be more understanding. You could only feel extreme pity.

When he looked up, tears very clearly visible in his dark, bloodshot eyes, he seemed to tilt his head to the side, signaling confusion. Like he didn't recognize your friendly gesture. Was it unfamiliar to him? You didn't know how, but you only managed to feel even worse for him. 

Slowly, you spoke again, in an attempt to soothe him the best you could. "It's okay...come here..." You beckoned him closer.

Almost a bit reluctantly, he slunk over from the shadows. As he drew closer you found yourself once again feeling small. But you didn't back down. He stood before you, almost awkwardly. So you wrapped your arms around him first, having to stand up on your toes in order to hold him comfortably. Under your touch, he seemed to stiffen momentarily before completely relaxing. His head sank into the crook of your neck as his cheek pressed to yours. 

"You'll be okay, alright? I'll only be gone for an hour or two," you told him. 

Without responding, Brahms wrapped his arms around you back. Your fingers arched with surprise against his back as he pulled you backwards with him, falling down into the bed nearby. He pulled you down with him easily, holding you higher up and closer to his chest. He turned on his side, wrapping a leg over your hip, his forehead almost pressed to yours as he peered at you from behind the mask through half-lidded, teary eyes. When his grip around you became tighter, you felt your heart flutter and you weren't sure if it was in a good way.

Trapped. Again.

"Brahms?" you tried, your voice slightly shaking. 

You hoped he wasn't going to try anything. You really didn't think you could handle it at the moment. Before you knew it, you were overthinking and beginning to tremble, ever so slightly. But his arms and hands didn't move any further. He simply laid there with you, looking more concerned with keeping you near rather than making any more advances on you as he'd done downstairs. You felt almost like a teddy bear, hearing his breath soft and muffled behind the porcelain. He lifted his head slightly so his nose was at your hair. A bit of a blush crossed your face as he inhaled before resting his chin on top of your hair. 

"I don't..." he began, with the child's voice at first before he quickly dropped it again. "I don't want you to leave me. Ever." The whining tone was still present, but it wasn't nearly as prominent as before. You thought his voice would have been nice, all soft and deep and accented, were it not for the things he was saying. 

He was clingy and ridiculous but even still it wasn't enough to put you off. It wasn't enough to further your decision in leaving as quickly as possible. This was the first time in a long time you'd ever been embraced by someone without having been mercilessly thrown around beforehand. It was almost foreign before it occurred to you that this was what all embraces were supposed to feel like. Not like a juxtaposition to a beating, a pathetic attempt at trying to earn forgiveness. You felt your own arms, still shaking gently, tighten around him as you relaxed, letting out a long soft exhale. 

And you laid there with Brahms for what felt like a long time. Willingly. 

"I'll come back, you know," you eventually said, after awhile. "I've no where else to go." 

Brahms didn't offer you a response--he only managed to squeeze you tighter, like a boa constrictor. Tentatively, your hands reached higher up from his back and slid over top his shoulders, up the back of his neck and into his dark, curly hair. You tangled them in his locks, finding it relieved your anxiety ever so slightly. Your touch seemed to relax him all over again and his grip lessened on you. 

"I promise. I don't break my promises, Brahms. Two hours. That's it. And I'll be back." 

When he didn't respond yet again, you quickly tired of his antics. Vainly, you attempted to get up and free yourself from his arms, but he wouldn't let you. Your breath hitched in your throat when his hand suddenly snaked up to the back of your hair, grabbing at it and pulling you back down, hard, with his other arm still wrapped around your body. You inhaled sharply and considered yelling at him. No. That'll make things worse. You didn't want to anyways. And you figured that if being yelled at triggered you, it wouldn't be any different for him. Hell--sometimes he seemed to flinch when you even moved too fast. 

Slowly, you tried again. "Brahms. Please," you said instead. 

Like magic, slowly and surely, but obviously reluctantly above all else, Brahms's grip began to loosen up. It was enough for you to slide free from his arms. You shifted off to the side, standing up off the bed. You readjusted the towel around your body which had nearly been tugged off in Brahms's attempt to keep you on the bed with him. You glanced over and he was still laying there, motionless, his gaze now trained hard on the ceiling like he was trying extra hard not to look at you. You realized he was sulking again when he crossed his arms (which you actually thought was kinda cute).

Shaking your head, you rolled your eyes and headed back into the bathroom to change into your clothes from before. They'd do for just one more day, even if there were some faded, hardened blood stained here and there on the front of the oversized shirt and a few tears in the sweatpants. You hung the towel up as neatly as you could, not wanting to be the one to spoil the aesthetic and previously pristine state of the bathroom. 

When you came back out, Brahms had changed position and was now sitting on the side of the bed, elbows on his knees, shoulders hunched as his eyes focused on you. 

"Two hours," you promised him again, holding up two fingers as you began to walk past. 

Brahms's head turned to face a shelf along the side of the room. There was a clock on it (one you couldn't immediately read because you usually relied on your phone and had formed a habit of reading digital time instead. His gaze shifted back over to you. Still reluctant, he dug his hand into his cardigan pocket and pulled out a key, offering it to you. You realized it must have gone to the front door and reached to take it from him, your large sleeve swallowing up almost all of your hand except for your fingertips. Brahms moved his arm like he was going to grab your wrist again, and you instinctually flinched. Instead, however, he simply held your hand gently, pushing your sleeve up to expose your palm so he could place the key in it himself. He closed your fingers over it, wrapping your smaller fist in his much larger, scarred hands. 

He didn't look up at first. "Two hours," he repeated, in his normal voice. Suddenly he looked up, his gaze intense and his eyes darkened by the harsh shadows cast by the mask. "Two hours." 

* * *

On the way down the stairs, you ended up throwing together some pathetic excuse for a plan when you realized you didn't even had one. You'd meant to figure it out after you'd showered but obviously that hadn't been the first thing on your mind at that moment. As you unlocked the door you eventually came to the conclusion that you could probably just walk. As far as you could remember from when you'd been speeding down the black roads in the middle of a storm, the lights of the town had seemed closer by than you'd previously thought. 

Fortunately, it seemed like you wouldn't be sacrificing one of the hours Brahms had given you just by trying to walk to the town. It'd only now occurred to you that on foot, there was no way you'd be able to walk, find the grocery store, shop (and with what money? maybe you'd find an ATM and risk being traced through your bank account?), and then walk back AND carry all the groceries that way too all in two hours or under. You would have felt immensely bad for breaking your promise to him after you'd fought so hard to get him to trust you. So that's why when a car pulled alongside of the road near you, your relief overpowered your usual paranoia and anxiety. 

The man in the car had been pretty average--a bit on the older side--but tired and weathered looking and experienced. At the moment, he hadn't given off any red flags or bad energy. You just wanted to make sure you'd at least get to the town faster as you weren't sure you'd get this type of opportunity again. 

"Where you coming from?" he asked you, hand loose and casual at the wheel. 

"J-just a house nearby. My car's...getting worked on right now so I thought I could just walk to town for some groceries." 

The driver laughed. "Bit of a long walk, isn't it? I could drive you back too if you'd like." 

You'd been stunned by the offer at first and quickly shook your head 'no'. "Nah, nah, I wouldn't wanna be a bother or anything. You've already gone out of your way to drive me there in the first place." 

He glanced at you from the corner of his eye before looking back to the winding road. Fuck, you were glad you had chosen to take the ride rather than walk all that. "It wouldn't be a bother, honest," he insisted. "Nothin' planned today anyways. I actually have to run by the store myself." He paused for a second. "The only place nearby is the Heelshire's property, right? You workin' there or something? What happened to that other grocery boy...er what was his name? Michael? No...Malcolm? Malcolm, I think it was."

You found yourself awkward in the sudden onslaught of questions and new information. _Who the fuck is Malcolm?_ ended up coming out as a confused, stammery "uhm...Malcolm?" 

The driver nodded, grateful for a confirmation you hadn't actually given him. "Yeah, yeah. I see him around town sometimes. He delivers groceries for the Heelshires. Or I guess he _used_ to. Guessin' you're his replacement?" 

_Fuck, might as well go along with it._

"Yeah, that's me," you told him, following it with a nervous laugh that you thought would give you away instantly. Obviously, the man didn't care very much however. 

"That family picks up a _lotta_ groceries. Believe me, you'll need the ride back," the man insisted again, which set off a bit of a red flag in your head. Uncomfortably, you shifted in your seat. Door was still unlocked. Your hand was near the buckle on the off chance you'd literally have to jump out of a fully moving vehicle to escape this guy. If you survived one car crash you figured you could do this too. 

Luckily, the small talk seemed to die down from there. Your hand still stayed near the seat belt buckle. When the town drew closer, the man explained that there was a section at the store meant for pickup and that you could probably walk up and tell them that you were Malcolm's replacement. From there on out, it seemed to be easy. 

Once you actually got into the store however, you felt like your white lie was going to bring everything crashing down around you. What if someone asked for your identification? What if they asked for proof? What the hell were you going to tell them? _"Oh it's chill, you see I've been staying in the house for free that Brahms guy sure is something isn't he?"_ You bit the inside of your cheek as you drew closer to the desk. 

Luckily, it seemed to be a pretty laid back, small town full of people who really didn't suspect they were getting straight up lied to. When you realized how easy it was going to be to claim the groceries (and apparently you were only a day late according to the employee working the desk), you seemed to be able to catch your breath again. You'd literally never heard of a type of arrangement like this before, all automatic and so lenient, like it was specifically made for whoever the "Heelshires" were. And when you heard the payment for the groceries went on an account said family had set up previously for Malcolm, you got considerably bolder. The employee didn't have any problem with you adding on some basic clothes and toiletries and seemed to easily eat up your excuse that "the Heelshires had asked you to grab some extra items". You even grabbed some candy near a register, hoping that Brahms didn't have any allergies you needed to be aware of. You figured he'd like it if you brought something back for him anyways, slipping it in your pocket once everything was paid for. 

Overall you literally couldn't believe your luck. 

The stranger who had given you the ride to the store apparently finished up his own shopping and helped you carry the boxes of groceries back to his car, where he loaded them in the back seat. You didn't have a watch or a phone on you at the moment, but you figured you were making good time and imagined that you hadn't hit the two hour mark yet. Still, that didn't stop you from stepping out of your comfort zone and urging the driver to go a little over the speed limit in getting you back to the Heelshire estate.

"I don't want any of the frozens to go bad," was your feeble excuse. "To be honest I'm not supposed to actually be out right now either." 

He whistled. "What you the new babysitter too? Don't know why'd they put all that on a poor girl like you--giving you grocery duty and whatnot." He gave you another sideways glance. "Hopefully the Heelshires gave you the...rundown of what goes on in their place before you took the job." 

Your brows furrowed. "What do you mean by that?" 

"The doll? The kid?" 

"What doll? Your confusion was only getting worse and you once again felt overwhelmed. 

"Ah they finally got rid of that old thing then? None of my business, really, but glad to see they're finally moving on. It's had to have been...what? Maybe twenty years now?" 

You had no idea what he was talking about and couldn't really think of a way to respond. Doll? Twenty years? What the hell had you missed? Brahms on his own was strange enough but you literally hadn't been aware of...any of this and probably wouldn't have ever picked up on it if someone hadn't told you. He took your silence as a chance to continue.

"How are the Heelshires anyways? Holding up?"

You hadn't known previously that Brahms wasn't the only person apparently living in that house. Did he have a wife? A kid or something? You honestly couldn't see it. Maybe parents then? You fidgeted with your fingers as you tried to figure out what to say. "Uhm...they're out of town. It's just me. Th-they're coming home in a few days, though. That's why they wanted some groceries ready." 

For a moment you had to sit back and wonder why the hell you were going this far to lie. And for Brahms--a man who seemed to be practically a stranger to you again after you learned of all this new information. Who the fuck were the Heelshires? It had to be his family, but why hadn't he mentioned them before? Why were they being spoken about like they were still around? 

A bit of traffic at some point slowed the car to a crawl coming out of town, which made you anxious all over again and you promptly forgot all your new worries. You weren't really paying attention for the rest of the drive, zoning out as you gazed out the window and offered simple responses to further small talk about yourself. You didn't give any real answers and eventually you must have sounded cold enough that the guy stopped asking questions. This guy apparently had a hard time making small talk with you that didn't revolve around the Heelshires, but you managed to last the majority of the drive and dodge any real questions. You didn't know why he was asking you so many things because you didn't actually know the answer either. 

You breathed a sigh of relief as the tops of the looming Heelshire place came into view. The gate was still open from the nights before so the man giving you the ride drove right through and up the driveway. You wondered if it would have been smarter to have him drop you and the boxes just off at the gate. Too late now. Still, when he insisted that he wanted to help you bring the boxes _into_ the house, that's when you drew the line. You figured you were just paranoid and the stranger was just trying to be helpful, but you didn't want to risk anything.

"I've got it from here," you told him once the last box was near the front door, at your feet. You could easily push them in from here. 

"You sure? If we both bring them inside-"

"Yep! Totally fine, you've already done so much for me already. I'm stronger than I look, I promise. Anyways, bye, thank you for the lift!" you rambled quickly, waving him goodbye before he could get another word in. 

Almost reluctantly, the stranger left the front door and headed back to his car. You watched him leave, waiting until the car was far out of sight and you could no longer hear the engine. Finally, you breathed a sigh of relief and shouldered open the front door, one box hoisted under your arm and against your hip--another being pushed in by your foot. It was hard putting weight onto one leg--your injured one that was still heavily bruised from the crash and a possible sprained ankle, you weren't quite sure. Still, you managed to get the other boxes in as well and give them a final push to get them out of the doorway.

With a heavy sigh, you closed the door, loudly as you could, hoping Brahms could hear that you came back and kept your promise. Unfortunately when you were finally able to get a good look around, you could only put a shocked hand to your mouth, observing all the new and complete chaos all around. If you thought the foyer was messy before then...then you didn't exactly know what to label the disaster before you this time. Rips in the wall paper, holes in the wall, tables tipped, candelabras thrown, a mirror hanging up completely cracked and more you couldn't even properly focus on. 

Apparently you'd been out for more than two hours. 

True to his childish nature, Brahms had completely wrecked the place in what would have been the biggest meltdown you'd ever witnessed in your life. A part of you was grateful you weren't actually in the house to witness it however. You sometimes forgot that although he was somewhat timid and clingy and acted small--he was still plenty big and plenty capable of this violence and destruction. A soft noise--crying, you realized--was coming from the living room, the one with the piano in it. 

He was a mess, curled up in a ball, chest heaving as he cried, hair a mess and hands bloody and knuckles bruised. 

At first, you could only stand there, unsure of what to do, unsure of whether to approach him or not. You figured that there was nothing else you could do and that maybe seeing you physically again would calm him down. You just didn't want to make things worse. You felt bad, too, looking down upon him. 

"Brahms?" you tried, your voice shaking slightly. 

He didn't look up. He didn't make any indication that he recognized you being there. It was out of spite, you realized, out of anger too. He continued to lay on the floor, his sobs less intense now, but not completely gone. 

Not knowing any other way to get his attention, you dropped to floor, crawling over to him before laying down so you could face him. His eyes were even more reddened behind his mask and his shoulders were still shaking. At first, he still seemed to be irritated, rolling over so you were facing his back. Letting out an exasperated sigh, you got half way up, leaning over him, your body curving over his side. 

"Brahms," you said again, your voice a bit stronger. 

"You said two hours." Once again, he'd regressed back to using his baby voice. He looked as though he was about to have another fit, but you were quick to gently touch the cheek of his mask.

"I know, I know. I'm sorry. I honestly didn't mean to be out that long..." you decided not to tell him about your hitchhiking, figuring it'd send him into a jealous fit if you did. "It was hard carrying those boxes all the way back here. I had to take, like, a lot of breaks." It was the most bullshit lie you'd told that day but like hell if he wouldn't eat it up too.

His sobs and cries had died down to small hiccups and sniffles now. He shifted slightly so he could look at you better. You were sitting back on your heels now, your hands at your thighs as you looked back down at him, waiting for a response. He touched your shoulder, his hand then slowly sliding down your arm and grabbing at your hand. He lifted it, playing with your fingers almost absentmindedly, the occasional spasm still shaking his body. 

You tilted your head in the direction of the nearby couch. "C'mon. Let's go sit on the couch, it'll be more comfy." 

He gave a slight nod and you got up, relieving the burning in your legs. You collapsed down onto the couch with a sigh, stretching out your arm to rest it on the side of it. Brahms had no problem laying upon it longways. His head came down into your lap comfortably. You remembered the candy in your pocket and figured now would be a good time to give it to him. You figured if you'd given it to him as an incentive to calm down rather as a sort of reward _for_ calming down he'd be less likely to have tantrums. It was kinda weird you had to treat him like a child at times, but you figured if it worked it didn't matter. 

Reaching into your pocket, you pulled out the candy. 

"I dunno what you like but I got you this," you said, offering it to him.

To your relief, he reached out and took it, holding it to his chest. Apparently the idea of you still thinking of him when you were out of the house and far beyond his reach seemed to make him extremely happy. His head shifted on your lap as he got into a more comfortable position, letting out a long sigh. You figured he was probably exhausted after all the destruction and crying he'd been doing. 

Leaning back your own weary head against the couch, your fingers found their way into his thick, tangled hair, slowly undoing knots and tangles as they went. Your own exhaustion was made apparent to you as you had difficulty keeping your eyes open. You figured there wouldn't be any harm in a quick nap. 

When you stopped stroking slowly through his dark curls, Brahms reached up, grabbing your hand and holding it tightly. 


	5. porcelain

When the front door scraped open, slowly, you roused from your sleep, your hand on your lap. It was dark out and Brahms was gone. You wondered how many hours you'd been out for. You sat up, rubbing at your eyes as you glanced around the room, looking for him. He was no where to be found, but yet, you could see multiple shadows passing the windows. 

Your blood ran cold. 

That definitely wasn't Brahms. He was the last man to be outside this house in the first place.

The figures were talking amongst themselves, quietly, but not so quiet you couldn't hear. They didn't seem to quiet down, not even when they were finally inside the house. Were they reckless? No. They just knew you were alone. You faintly recognized the clothes of one of them as being identical to the ones the man who'd given you a lift to the grocery store earlier. 

"You sure no one else is home?" one of their gruff voices sounded.

"Positive. Just the chick. Said the crazy old bats wouldn't be back till a few more days. Should be an easy job." 

_They're robbers_ , you realized, your hand clenching at the fabric of the cushions beneath you. _God fucking dammit, I'm so stupid._

Your fresh fear waking you completely, you quickly stood up off the couch, pressed to the walls, trying to stay in the shadows and out of view corners as you looked for Brahms. You figured if you weren't separated from him, you'd have a better chance of making it out alive, or fairly unscathed at least (you weren't sure if these men were going to look for you and what they were going to do if they found you still...). At least, you felt like you'd be safer with him. You also didn't feel like nursing another stab wound if Brahms happened to show up at the wrong time and get stabbed by the intruders either. 

You were hoping they'd first go up stairs to make sure it was all clear. If they just had their backs turned you thought you might be able to cross the foyer and get to the kitchen. Maybe get a knife and arm yourself too. These men were armed--no gun, thank God, as far as you could see, but pocket knives clenched tight in their hands. Relief washed over you when they began to gather at the stairs and the hallway winding past them. Just a few moments, that was all you needed to get past. 

After holding your breath and position for what felt like hours, you went for it, hoping to dart past them fast enough that they wouldn't even notice. Unfortunately, one of them seemed to turn around just as you went to run past to the kitchen. Your heart dropped when your eyes met his, but you didn't dare stop. If you could just get a knife you'd have a fighting chance. Unfortunately, that chance disappeared pretty fast when he alerted the others with a point in your direction and a sharp "hey!"

They had you on the ground in seconds, a hand from the group pinning between your shoulders so you couldn't get up. You squeezed your eyes shut, nails digging into moth eaten carpet, your breath becoming shaky in your chest. It was only a few moments of having your nosed practically shoved into the dusty floor before one of them grabbed you by the back of your arm and yanked you back up to your feet. A cry of pain escaped you as you tried to yank back, leaning away, only to get shoved by another robber right behind you.

"Get the _hell_ off of me!" you snapped. Momentarily, you forgot about the extreme discomfort of a stranger's touch, only able to focus on the hot anger practically filling your veins. _Where the fuck is Brahms?!_

"Shut your fucking mouth. Ain't no one around to hear you anyways," one of them growled back--the driver, you remembered. 

You tried to jerk out of the grip of the robber holding you steady. When you failed, he wasted no time in mercilessly slamming you against one of the walls--so hard your vision flashed white when the side of your head hit the wallpaper. Your clenched your jaw, in pain, too stubborn to give them the satisfaction of hearing you cry out again. You couldn't hear much of their snide remarks between their thick accents and the ringing in your skull as they dragged you towards the billiards room. Once inside, the robber gripping you tightly let go in favor of once again shoving you straight onto the floor. You sat upright quickly, crawling a few more feet away from the group for good measure, a hand held gingerly to your jaw and cheek as you fixed them with a filthy glare.

"Make sure she doesn't fucking move," the driver said. 

They left one of the robbers to guard the entrance to the room. He'd been facing you for a good few minutes as his gang began to ransack the house. You could hear them knocking over candelabras, yanking open drawers and slamming them shut, moving cabinets and such. For a brief moment, you wondered if they'd make a bigger mess than Brahms' tantrum had. But eventually, when you didn't move anymore than going to the other side of the room to press up against the wall, sitting on the floor with your knees drawn to your chest, the robber left to guard you turned his back. 

Maybe he was anxious for his pals to come back with their loot so they could leave. Or maybe he was an overly cautious type that really didn't believe you were all alone in this house--the only possible threat. And he was completely right. If only the man of the house would actually show the fuck up to confirm this robber's suspicions. 

Another flash of frustration overcame you as your head knocked back against the wall. You were more scared than angry, deep down. You were worried that Brahms had moved somewhere else to sleep or doze off and the group of armed men tearing his house to pieces would catch him off guard. You didn't want him to get hurt. And worst of all, you didn't know what would happen to you once the robbers finished their work. You'd seen their faces. You'd heard their voices. You could easily identify them in a lineup if you so chose to. Already, thoughts of ways to plead and bargain for your life began running wild through your head. You shoved your face into the arms crossed over your knees, holding back tears. 

"Brahms, where the fuck are you?" you found yourself thinking out loud, muttering under your breath. 

You looked up suddenly when you heard the ever so gentle scrape of wood on wood. Like a door being rolled open. You glanced around the room, trying to figure out where it was coming from, not being able to recall ever seeing a sliding door before in the house. Rough hands grabbed around your torso and over your shoulders, suddenly pulling you back into darkness. 

_Behind the wall,_ you realized as one of your hands went to the wrist near your neck and the other went to the fingers grasping around your waist.

The light blinked away as the moving panel shifted shut, just as quietly as it had opened. You recognized the texture of burn scars beneath your fingers. Slowly, you were pulled up to your feet, up to a chest, moving with harsh, short, angry breaths. You had no choice but to lean into it, considering how narrow the passageway was. 

"Wha-" you started, a bit too loudly, before the scarred hand clamped around your mouth tightly, silencing you immediately.

The grip around your waist tightened even more, pulling you closer to the warm body behind you. You reached up, wrapping your fingers around the hand, shifting it slightly, but continuing to hold it tightly. Scarred fingers still pushed up against your lips. You tilted your head back in a vain attempt to see something in the darkness. Slowly, your other hand strayed away from the arm wrapped around your waist and tentatively reached up.

Your voice barely above a whisper, you asked, "Brahms, is that you?"

Your shaking fingers brushed over cold porcelain. The ice cold feel seemed to bring instant comfort to you as you a heavy sigh of relief escaped you. Your heart stopped pounding in your chest as intensely and you felt as though you could finally breathe. His fingers left your lips as his own hand moved back up to his mask, holding your hand. He squeezed so tight you thought he might break the bones in your hands. But you didn't mind it. Not from him at least. 

His head lowered slightly, the porcelain, tinted lips of the mask at your ear. In a voice that was muffled by the mask, but low and gruff all the same, he spoke. "Don't move." 

Brahms' hand squeezed at your side before he slid past you. You could see his silhouette faintly now in the dim passageway. He bent down to retrieve something off the floor, before sliding open the panel again. You spotted a glint of metal as he crept back out of the wall, pipe in hand. He shut the sliding wall behind him slowly. You couldn't see what he was about to do next but you had a faint idea and were well aware that it wasn't going to end well for any of the intruders in the house. That pipe had seemed so natural in his hand. Like he'd used it before. 

Quick footsteps, yelling (from the robber), and the sound of metal against flesh and then cracking bone. A body being beaten. You winced, hard, inside the wall, wrapping your arms around yourself as you sank down to the dusty, unkempt passageway floor. The sound reminded you faintly of what your life was before you'd run away. To here. Before Brahms. 

The sound of the scuffle between Brahms and the robber had obviously drawn the attention of the other robbers. You could hear their gathering voices. Could Brahms take them all at once? You knew he was a good deal bigger than any of the men you'd gotten glimpses of but they were still armed with knives and there were maybe three or four of them in total. Your heart seemed to sink in your chest. 

You hated having to hear everything happening without seeing a thing. Your drew your knees close to your chest once again. In an attempt to drown out the sounds of the screaming and the pipe cracking against skulls and bodies, you pressed your shaking hands over your ears as you shut your eyes tightly. 

For a moment you wondered if you should have gone out and stopped it. You wondered if you should have gone out to make sure Brahms didn't...well...do anything worse than knock the men out. Was he capable of killing? You'd looked into his eyes again and again. They were cold and dark and mistrusting, yet wanting and needy all at the same time but...you didn't think they were the eyes of a killer. Then again, you weren't exactly known for your good judgement in men. 

_Just stay put. Just do what he told you to._

He'd given you a command. And you knew it wasn't out of the question for you to trigger a tantrum from him if you disobeyed. A tantrum after...after all he was doing at the moment didn't sound very appealing to you and you weren't sure if it would cause him to turn his pipe on you. You didn't think he'd hit you. But you also didn't think he'd honestly go out to confront all the intruders all on his own with even more malicious intent than they had. You'd imagined he was simply going to bring you somewhere safe where you could both wait out the robbers and cut your losses. Now that you were rethinking on that idea, you realized how ridiculous it sounded. 

This was _his_ house. 

No guests allowed under any circumstances. 

After awhile, everything went quiet. Slowly, hesitantly, you removed your hands from your ears and lifted your head. You held still and silent for a moment, listening for anymore voices. You held that position for what felt like hours before you realized Brahms hadn't returned yet. For the first time, you wondered if one of the thuds you'd heard even through your hands over your ears had been his body. 

He'd told you not to move but if he was hurt you had no choice. 

Slowly, you got to your feet, your legs feeling numb after sitting, cramped up in the wall as long as you had. Your hand still shaking faintly, you reached for what you believed was the hidden panel, and pushed it to the side lightly. When it only budged a little, you put more of your weight on it, not realizing how heavy it really was. Your hand stayed on the side of the panel as you ducked out from the hidden passageway. You froze with your hand upon the wood at the sight before you. 

You didn't need to look long to realize those men were not getting off that floor. Ever. You looked away quickly before you could focus on the growing pools of their combined blood soaking into the floorboards and the rug nearby. You focused on Brahms instead, which wasn't a much better view. He was simply standing there, over the bodies, breathing heavy, stature slack, pipe tight in his hands, his dark, curly locks falling over the white porcelain of his cracked mask. You put a hand to your mouth, a soft 'oh', barely getting past your lips.

Slowly, he turned to you, new blood visible on his white tank top, new stains along the cheeks of his moon white mask. 

"They were talking about you," he said. And then he looked at you, his eyes fixed on yours, his head lowered. He tilted it accusingly, his eyes narrowing. 

"Y-yeah. One of them, u-uhm...gave me a ride to and from the store. I...I didn't think he was-" 

You fell silent as Brahms began to approach you. You gripped your own hand between your fingers tightly, averting eye contact from him and instead choosing to stare back at the blood stained ground over him. The nausea was decidedly worth it at the moment. You preferred it to the way he was looking at you right now--the way it made you feel like you were being plunged into literal ice. 

He was maybe only an inch away from you when he came to a stop. Slowly, he brushed the pipe, still slick with blood up against your side, leaving a narrow trail over your clothes, up the side of your neck. You felt the harsh metal at your jaw, and you lifted your head to look up at Brahms. He was injured, you realized. The intruders had fought back hard. There was a massive bruise on his arm, visible beyond the grime and another on the side of his neck. Brahms was no God, his blood had been spilled as well. Dripping out from the bottom of his mask, signaling what you thought might have been a broken nose. 

But Brahms had clearly hurt the intruders worse. Your eyes darted away from his again, back to floor, back to the bodies. Unmoving. No breath stirred at their bodies. Just eerie stillness. You inhaled a bit sharply before holding your breath. Now was not the time to freak out. You couldn't have a meltdown. You couldn't run from this either. You can't leave Brahms. Not yet. 

_But I will soon._

Because he's dangerous. He's ultimately dangerous, you realized, and you can't save him. You never had meant to save him. You never were going to. Even you knew that some people were beyond redemption. Broken beyond repair. He's one of them. Deep down you'd always known there had to be some reason he was living all alone in this house meant for a family, with a strange, white, cracked mask, apparently living inside the walls as well. 

There's a reason there's older, browned, dried blood on the pipe beneath the newly spilled blood. 

You took a moment to collect your thoughts, your bearings, your realizations--and then promptly shove them all to the back of your head all over again. Just for the sake of coexisting safely with Brahms. Just for now, you told yourself again and again. Just for now. Fake it till you make it because that's the only way out of this twisting, winding, confusing mess. 

Slowly, you spoke, trying to alleviate the growing tension in the room. "Brahms, you got hurt..." 

Silently, he continued standing there, staring down at you. You realized his eyes weren't focused on yours, but upon your cheek, on a new bruise of your own. Probably from getting roughed up by one of the robbers. It was close to a gash from the car crash that had only recently healed up. Judging by the sudden warmth trickling down your face, you assumed it was busted open again. Still, you reached up to touch your cheek, glancing at your fingers to see more shining red, just as you suspected. God, you'd seen enough blood today to last you a lifetime. 

"Come on, we can get cleaned up together. Is that okay?" you tried again, hoping to get some sort of response out of him, something to bring him back to earth with you and stop him from seeming so...cold and distant and far away and unpredictable...and scary. 

To your utter relief, he nodded, gently. Suddenly, he seemed a lot smaller, a lot more timid, like his energy had completely changed. His shoulders hunched and he bowed his head softly. A small sniffle came from behind the mask, indicating to you that his adrenaline had run its course and he was now feeling the full effect of his injuries. You took the hand empty of the pipe in your own, squeezing it gently and pulling Brahms into a walk. He had a bit of difficulty getting up the stairs, apparently having developed a limp from the brawl with the intruders. 

Once you brought him into the room you'd become most familiar with, you dropped his hand and couldn't help but notice that he was still gripping the bloody pipe tightly in his hand. You looked at it for a long moment, hoping he'd take the hint without you having to say anything. But he didn't--he was too oblivious, or maybe on edge. You cleared your throat. 

"Brahms, the pipe..." you tried gently. 

Brahms just looked down at you. His grip didn't loosen on the metal. So he was on edge then still. 

"It's okay," you coaxed. "You don't need it anymore. The bad men are gone." 

Indecisively, some of his fingers seemed to arch against the pipe, lifting slightly. Reluctantly, he set down the pipe at the foot of the bed nearby. A sigh of relief left you as you managed to take both of his hand (which were covered in blood too) in yours and pull him into the bathroom with you, shutting the door behind him. 

Letting his hands slip from yours you looked up at him. "Okay, I'm gonna take off your cardigan for a second. I just wanna make sure there's nothing I miss..." 

He tilted his head but seemed to comply, letting your hands trace up his arms, to his shoulders, to where his cardigan opened. You pulled it down from his arms, draping it over the counter, partway into the sink. You froze up for a minute, turning to look back at him. You hadn't realized before that he wasn't as skinny as you thought he was. He seemed fairly well built for a man who had definitely spent most of his life apparently crawling around in cramped secret passageways inside the walls of this house. You'd known he was hairy, but didn't think that it extended all the way down his arms. 

You took his arm, wetting a washcloth in the sink and dragging it down, doing your best to get any dirt or grime off. You managed to uncover a few cuts that definitely would have gotten infected if you hadn't decided to clean him up. He watched you as you worked, unblinking and almost un-breathing, like a statue. You couldn't tell if your touch was making him uncomfortable or if he was afraid moving would suddenly scare you away. As you worked at his other arm with the hot water, over his bruise, he let out a bit of a groan, shutting his eyes behind the mask and tilting his head back slightly. You bit the inside of your cheek, feeling a bit of heat in your own face at the sound.

"You know showers exist right," you said, looking at all the dust and dirt that had come off onto the washcloth and back up at Brahms. You nudged him playfully in the chest with a closed fist, hoping to once again lighten the growing tension. 

Brahms grabbed your hand, bringing it up gently to his porcelain lips and bowing his head. You noticed a new hairline crack in his mask. 

"No seriously, I mean it. You'd feel better after a shower, Brahms," you pushed on. 

He ignored you, his lips still brushing over the soft skin of your hand. 

You frowned. "Brahms. Come on. For real," you tried again. 

Brahms shook his head 'no' a bit childishly. A whiny ghost of a "no" came from him, muffle behind the mask. You let out a soft, weary sigh, knowing you were about to say some crazy ass shit yet again. 

_Time to pull out the big guns._

You leaned closer to him, pushing up slightly onto your toes to get your face closer to his. "I'll go in with you. So you still know I'm there." He looked up. Bingo, you caught his interest again and maybe some agreement too if you kept going. One of your hands trailed down your chest as you glanced off to the side as casually as you could. "And...you get to see me naked?" 

Even with his mask on, you could tell the Brahms' breath hitched and he seemed to instantly stand up straighter. A moment later his rough hands went to the hem of your shirt and started to lift it up. Not realizing how fast he was intending to move, you became flustered. A strange ice seemed to jet through your veins and you flinched away from him almost instinctually, attempting to tear away from his grip. Brahms didn't seem to get the hint and stubbornly jerked you closer. Irrational panic flooded you. 

Stammering, you grabbed at his wrists. Your hands had begun to tremble again. "Brahms. Brahms. Wait. Please." Your 'please' shook a little too. A heavy breath escaped you when he stopped, looking at you with what seemed to be frustration. "L-let me just. Take off my clothes on my own, please." 

Brahms blinked at you, hesitating. His scarred fingers fidgeted with the hem of your shirt before slowly, he let go. You could barely hold back the sigh of relief as you took a step back from him, your breath beginning to steady. 

"T-thank you," you told him. 

Under his piercing gaze, you all the sudden felt shy all over again. You cleared your throat before taking another few steps back and turned around to take off your shirt. Throughout the entire process of stepping out of your oversized sweats, you could feel him staring at you, like he was afraid you'd just disappear into smoke if he dared to blink. You decided to stop stripping at your underwear, already feeling vulnerable enough as you turned around, your arms crossed over your chest.

"Your turn," you said briskly trying to ignore his stare on you as you came closer to him. You went to reach up to his shoulders, but hesitated, your hands still at your chest. 

_It's literally just boobs oh my god, they're just boobs. So many people have them._

You eventually reached up to his shoulders, pushing his suspenders over them and off so you could lift his own shirt from his chest. You couldn't help but stare at his chest and look down his abdomen, tempted to trace the thick trail of hair leading down from it to his crotch. You regretted looking down more than you did because you could immediately tell he was getting hot just from the staring at you, bare chested before him, your hands on his chest. Your cheeks heated up, realizing that seeing his arousal seemed to amp up your own and your chest felt suddenly tight. 

_I cannot believe I actually_ like _this guy what the fuck is wrong with me?! Just after he murdered like four people, huh? Really? Is that what we're going for nowadays? Literal killers who live inside of walls?_

"I-I think you've got it from here," you said quickly, jerking your hands away from him. "I'm gonna get the shower going." 

You turned away before he could say no and try to stop you. You couldn't help but tease him more, despite your conflicting feels, bending over low on purpose to sweep aside the shower curtain and turn on the water. Brahms had zero problem undressing himself after that, which you were actually relieved about because you didn't think you could undress him anymore without bailing and running out of the bathroom. When you turned back around to look at him, careful to keep your eyes on his face rather than anything else, you noticed his mask was still on. 

Steam began to fill the bathroom as you faintly thought, _Good enough_ _, at least the shower water will get the blood on the mask off._

He was looking at you expectantly, glancing down and then up back at your face. Impatient. You rolled your eyes, realizing that it was once again "your turn" and you shifted your panties down and stepped out of them. You stepped into the shower, once again wrapping your arms around yourself instinctively out of sudden insecurity. He followed in after you obediently. His eagerness for you seemed to have won over his usual petty, childish, stubborn nature, which all the sudden you weren't so sure was a good thing. 

You went to turn around to say something to him--a joke probably to try and lighten the tension which was once again growing more and more by the second. Before you even had the chance, he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his tight embrace, under the shower stream. Almost immediately, you started crying, not even realizing how pent up and stressed you were after well...everything. You'd definitely needed a good cry in the shower for the longest time and Brahms' arms around you didn't make it any less cathartic.

What had happened was fucking terrifying and it was only seeming to hit you just now. Seeing Brahms with that bloody pipe had been equally terrifying as well. Even as you cried in his arms, into his chest, you were beginning to doubt everything you'd thought of him. Your previous thoughts that you thought you'd shoved away came rushing back all too soon.

He's dangerous. He's dangerous too.

But the way he held you so tight, like he was afraid you'd just vanish out of his arms, made you want to think differently. It made you troubled. It made you doubt yourself all over again. It made you doubt the truth. Just that type of power he seemed to have over you was as scary as any bloody pipe.   
  
Brahms pressed his masked lips to your cheek suddenly. You reached up into his hair, eyes half shut under the falling water, making sure it got soaked completely. If you distracted yourself with tending to him, maybe you wouldn't have to think about him and the pipe anymore. You reached past him to get some shampoo, lathering it in his hair. His forehead pressed to your skin as a soft groan echoed in the shower. Half opening his own eyes, he seemed to watch what you were doing before mimicking it as your hands fell away from his hair. You leaned into his touch, finding an odd sort of pleasure in his fingers brushing over your scalp and in his large hands running through your hair slowly, like he honest to God _still_ couldn't believe that you were _real_ that you were touching _him_ that you wanted to touch _him_ and he could touch _you_ in the same way. 

You blinked the water out of your eyes and pushed the shampoo away from your face, reaching up to work at his mask, rubbing at the blood stains under the shower stream. They were starting to come off--just a little bit, but some of the older ones seemed to really be set in no matter how much you rubbed. He seemed to grow suddenly antsy over the amount of touching on his mask, rather than his face. He wanted to feel your hands on his face, rather than the porcelain covering it now. You watched Brahms lift a hand to remove the mask. When his fingertips touched the chin of the porcelain, he seemed to hesitate. His conflict was obvious in his eyes, almost covered by the thick locks of wet hair brushed over his face. 

"It's okay," you said softly. "I...I already know what you look like under there, if that makes you like...feel any better. I saw on the night I first came here."

Brahms hands stayed at the edge of the mask, like he was still contemplating. He still wouldn't take it off. But you could tell how badly he wanted to. 

You tried again. "I'll turn around if you want. So I won't look at you. I just want to make sure the blood gets cleaned off your face." When Brahms still didn't move a muscle, more conflicted than childish or stubborn, you put a hand against his arm. "Look, watch." And you turned around. 

It only took a moment for Brahms to reach down, one of his hands going to your waist, cautious and slow in nature. You still flinched a little, but it seemed like he was picking up on the necessity of going slow and being gentle for the sake of your emotions and mental health. He seemed to understand now that if he moved too fast or carelessly, it scared you, bad, for some reason. One that you never really intended on telling him. 

You assumed that since his other hand wasn't on your waist, he was busy taking off his mask. His head suddenly rests on your shoulder, nuzzled into the space between it and the side of your face. As warm, soothing water ran down his face a sigh came from him. An unmuffled sigh. Slowly, out of your own curiosity, you reached up to touch his cheek. Your hand still had a slight tremble to it. Unable to get old habits under control, Brahms suddenly grabbed your wrist before your fingers could brush along his skin. You inhaled sharply as he held your hand there for a moment before slowly putting it up against his face. 

It was rough with scars--burn scars obviously that matched the ones on his hands and arms. But weirdly enough, you didn't mind it. You leaned your head back further so your face could press closer to his. His arm wrapped completely around your waist, pulling you closer to his body. He leaned more into your touch as you shut your eyes and just let the water run over you. God you couldn't ever remember being this exhausted in your life. 

But it was relaxing, just standing there under the shower stream with him. And despite being touch-starved and obviously horny as all hell (you could tell), he seemed to understand that it wasn't the right time for any further advances. If anything, he seemed more interested in holding you as close as possible. He'd seen you get thrown around and roughed up and threatened by those robbers, and it had scared him just as much as it angered him while he traveled helpless inside the walls, unable to do anything until he could pull you to definitive safety. 

After awhile, you felt much better and started to untangle yourself from Brahms' arms, moving to get out of the shower. Brahms growled under his breath, and the noise echoed as his arms tightened more around you and his thumb stroked over your skin slowly. Normally you would have given in to his wants, but you were exhausted and the shower steam was becoming suffocating and uncomfortable for you.

"Brahms. Come on," you said, a bit exasperated.

You could feel him shake his head and he heaved a hot, reluctant sigh into the sensitive skin on your neck. He still seemed upset by what had happened and still felt shaken and stiff and paranoid, all rigid against you. He was still tense. Still waiting for another attack or threat that you knew wasn't coming. 

"I'm not going anywhere, I promise," you told him, one of your hands brushing up over his coarsely haired arm. Further exhaustion seemed to fall over you and you had trouble even keeping your eyes open as you began to slouch against him. "Please, Brahms?" you began to softly beg. "I'm tired and I wanna go lay down..." 

Slowly, his arms fell from you. Knowing better, you didn't turn around, giving him a second to put his mask back on and secure it while you turned off the water. You shoved aside the shower curtain and stepped out, grabbing a towel. You quickly dried your hair and your skin, just wanting to get into a bed as fast as humanely possible. You wrapped the towel around your body as Brahms watched from inside the shower, his shoulders slightly hunched, water dripping from his dark hair still.

You beckoned him over, grabbing another towel to dry him off. He had to lean down a great deal more in order for you to comfortably reach his hair. He leaned completely into your touch yet again, almost pushing you a few steps back

_Jesus, he's so fucking touch starved._

You were careful with the mask as you moved on to dry that as well, not wanting to put any more stress on the cracks. You felt somewhat better knowing he now trusted you to touch his mask without grabbing you first or anything like that. 

"I don't know about you, but I feel _infinitely_ better," you told him. 

He didn't have to respond. Just a soft, drowsy nod would do as he shut his eyes behind his mask. 

"I'm gonna go lay down, okay?" 

You couldn't help but give him a bit of a weary smile before you tossed his towel over his head. You opened the bathroom door and went back into the bedroom, feeling somewhat refreshed by the chilliness of the normal air in the house. You figured that you could go downstairs to get clothes from the grocery box you had never ended up unloading, but you felt an arm around you before you could even reach for the doorknob. Brahms' pull was a bit forceful, shocking you slightly. You gasped and grabbed his arm before he flopped down into the bed, bringing you down with him. 

You wondered when you'd get tired of having him practically cling to her so tightly all the time. No doubt it was going to be a more common occurrence after how long and closely you'd let him hold you in the shower. But apparently, not yet, so you could put up with it for now--maybe even enjoy it. You were too tired to fight him anyways. 

It's also been awhile since you felt...safe in anyone's arms. 

Brahms shifted slightly as he pressed up against you, the hair on his chest rough against your bare back. His head rested in the crook of your neck for awhile, until you were nearly on the brink of a peaceful sleep. He leaned over your shoulder and pressed the porcelain lips to your cheek softly.


	6. dr.moreau

When morning came, shining through moth-eaten curtains, the previous, sweet bliss of the night before was gone and so was Brahms. Your fingers tracing up among soft sheets, you sat up, rubbing at sleepy eyes before throwing the covers off your legs and standing up yourself. Due to a slowly developing habit, you couldn't help but glance over the darkened corners of the room in case Brahms was sulking or brooding in one of them. But no. He really was gone. Probably back into the walls if you were to guess--you'd never seen him in the early hours of the morning before anyways. 

Going downstairs, you'd completely forgotten about the bodies that were still laying on the floor. Unfortunately, with the morning light piercing through the windows, you had a full view of their faces or...whatever was left of them. Your breath hitched in your throat and nausea filled you as you put a hand to your mouth. Spending the night on the ground had certainly done them no favors. 

And you hadn't realized how brutally Brahms had attacked them, you didn't have a full understanding of the excessive force Brahms had used to kill. Half of their faces seemed to have been bashed in--in what looked like a case of overkill. You couldn't help but remember the way he stood over those bodies when you had crept out from behind the wall. Not shaking with rage, but rather stone cold still with it, which was considerably more terrifying. 

As your stomach turned, so did you--away from the bodies that was. You had to look at something else for a bit through teary eyes, a nearby wall would do just fine. And as you stared at the wall, your eyes reading into the shifting, ornate patterns carved into it, you could only remind yourself again and again of what Brahms really was.

A killer.

Still.

Filled with uncontrollable rage that could break loose at any second. Filled with this capacity for evil and brutality that you'd only seen in the worst of men. And no amount of trauma that he may have had or complexities could fix that. No tragic backstory, no tragic burning of his flesh could ever make what he did okay. 

The wrath that lived in his chest, co-existing with his obvious lust, could easily be turned upon you. What was stopping him other than that lust? That strange, bred need in him for a companion at all times less he meltdown completely, perhaps. If you were to leave him _would_ he finally treat you like he had treated those intruders? 

You recalled the raw strength in his arms, the power of his grip around your wrist. The way he always seemed to stubborn fight back against what you wanted. He always got his way didn't he? 

Knowing what was capable of made your blood run like ice in your veins. Heavy guilt fell onto your shoulders as you looked down at the ground, your brows furrowed. Was it wrong to _still_ take pity on him after all he'd done? Even though you knew nothing could ever excuse his actions? Was it wrong to stay with him even longer and allow him to become more used to you--more _attached_ to you, to your presence, to your everything? Was it wrong to become part of his life? 

You knew his attachment to you would only grow more and more intense and suffocating. You recognized the red flags. You'd seen them before. The way you couldn't even leave the shower last night without begging him first came to mind. You bit the inside of your cheek. And, _God,_ his tantrum after you'd only been a little bit late coming back from town... 

Ultimately, no matter how you tried to measure out the benefits against the cons, the result was always the same. No matter how many idea you tried to scrape together it all lead to the same conclusion. You had to get out of here and soon. You'd thought you were safer here. But maybe you just hadn't been perceptive of the real danger lurking behind ornate walls. You'd been quick to hail this place as "safe" and Brahms as better because for years you'd been so mistreated you didn't realize you deserved better. That you needed better. That none of this was right, none of his behavior was healthy. It was just that a possessive, attached stranger who had yet to raise a hand against you seemed like a better option than a now ex-boyfriend that had. 

But the lesser of two evils was still evil. 

You knew that the town was closer than you had originally thought it was, maybe more than a few hours if you walked, but certainly doable now that you had recovered more from you car crash injuries. All the remained of them were a few scabs and bruises, but you could put your weight on the leg that had once been aching constantly and it seemed like you had more energy nowadays. The issue wasn't making it to town, however, the issue was trying to get around Brahms, who you knew wouldn't be pleased with your departure no matter what you said to him. Maybe you could sneak out early in the morning. You assumed Brahms would be sleeping then, or at least inside the walls which would stall him a little from directly being able to get in your way. 

You figured that you could at least leave a note, thanking him for his...uhm...hospitality to alleviate some of your usual guilt. He could keep the groceries too so he wouldn't starve--they'd just weigh you down anyways. The thought of the groceries lead you to wonder how he'd get the next delivery without leaving the house, which then made you feel even more guilty about leaving him. 

_God DAMMIT._

But you couldn't stay. There was no healthy way to exist with Brahms in the same space as you. He wasn't safe. Once again, he was just the lesser evil. What possible futures would there be for you if you did stay? Easy. There were two. Death. Or, the worse alternative, spending the rest of your life in this house with Brahms with no other option. As much as he might have wanted that for you. But it was... selfish that he wanted that. Childishly selfish and expected from him.

He needed help. A real therapist. A real home full of doctors and people who could give him the proper care and medication that he desperately needed--that you and hollow walls couldn't offer. It was too late for him, you knew that well, but you'd preferably want him safe in a ward or a cell than living alone in the house in the state he was in, both mentally, emotionally, and physically. A part of you still cared about him and his thoughts and feelings and wellbeing, and that made it all the harder to know you had to go. For your own sake.

And that wasn't selfish of you, abandoning Brahms, that is. It was what was right for you. Again and again in your head you repeated the mantra.

_I deserve better. I deserve better._

Leave him alone. Mind your business. Don't get involved anymore than you already mistakenly have. This wasn't about him anymore. It was about you now. _You_ needed to matter.

Brahms was dangerous. 

You couldn't give him your life. You couldn't dedicate it to him. Not when you were still so young and had so much more to do, so many other places to be. You missed your friends. You missed your family. You wanted to go home. 

Snapping out of your thoughts, you jumped when you turned and noticed Brahms standing behind you, no more than a few inches from having his head pressed to your cheek, nestled in the crook of your neck. When he did settle into that position, you let out a heavy breath. He was in the same clothes as he was from the day before, but at least he had showered and it seemed like there was less dirt on him than usual. It could have been worse. 

"You're really quiet you know," you told him, doing your best to fight off the shakiness in your voice. You wrapped your arms around yourself, hoping it would give you some kind of security as you looked up at him. Could he already tell you were planning to leave? Did he already know? Paranoia began to gnaw away at your insides.

Gently, he took your hand in his, playing with your fingers as he averted his gaze from yours. "I want music," he responded, in a small voice. It wasn't quite the same as his child voice, but very close. It seemed like he was still making an effort to use his normal voice around you. Once again, you felt guilt for pressuring him to use a voice that wasn't comfortable to him, but he also had literally murdered people, so it was the least he could do. 

What did it matter anyways if he started using his child voice again? 

_I'll be out of here soon._

"Not today, Brahms...I'm kinda tired. We were up late last night." 

He ignored you, his hand suddenly gripping tighter around yours. He dragged you into the room with the piano, ignoring your stumbling and refusing to adjust his pace to yours out of pettiness alone. Irked, you attempted to pull your hand from his.

"Brahms, I said I was tired. And I _still_ don't know how to play piano, by the way." 

He wouldn't let go. "Then read me something." 

Exasperated, you looked up at him, mustering up and putting on the most shocked expression you could manage. "Come on, Brahms," you said, feigning completely seriousness. "I never learned to read." 

Silently, he stared at you. No laugh, no giggle, no nothing. Did this guy just not have any sense of humor at all? Taken aback by the awkwardness and his lack of response, you cleared your throat. 

"I'm kidding, lighten up a lil..." trying to break the new tension, you gave him a playful nudge with your elbow as you passed by him. You looked up at the nearby bookshelf as he followed you closely. Your face fell. All of these books looked like they'd take hours if not days to read. Did they not have like _Where the Wild Things Are_ or anything shorter? Good, God this house was old as fuck. 

The joke did little to amuse him or soothe him, obviously. More demanding in nature, he spoke again. "I want you to read to me. Now." 

You tossed a careless, narrow eyed glance back at him. "Why don't _you_ read?" 

His fists clenched. "I don't _want_ to read, I want _you_ to read."

What had originally just been you messing with him and playing around had quickly turned into him getting worked up for real. You decided it was best to quit when you were ahead before you really made him angry. "Okay, okay, fine. Just calm down, okay? I'm just trying to pick something..."  
  
That seemed to pacify him for the time being, but his gaze burning into your back and the sudden silence descending upon the room did no further favors for your nerves. You couldn't find anything you recognized, so you just tried to narrow it down to the smallest, shortest looking book. Not only were you not exactly a big reader but you honestly weren't lying about still being dead tired and you just wanted this to be over with so you could go take a nap somewhere. 

You ended up choosing a book by the name of _The_ _Island of Dr. Moreau_ and went to get sit down on the sofa. Brahms sat down next to you, his side pressed to yours. You started, before suddenly stopping, feeling his gaze burning into you once again. Insecurity crashed down on your as you gripped the book tighter. 

"Kinda cold in here, huh?" you asked, giving a nervous giggle. 

Without a word, Brahms shifted off his cardigan. Before you could refuse, he made you put it on, his hands gripping at your arm, stretching out to pull the sleeve over. You almost instantly regretted using that excuse, as he had you on his lap, bare, scarred arms wrapped around you, his head resting on your shoulder. The cardigan was huge on you--the sleeves were longer than your own arms and went past your fingertips. You shifted to roll up the sleeves to readjust your hold on the book. You knew taking off that cardigan would definitely piss Brahms off and he'd take it completely personally. 

You tried again to read, hoping that somehow you'd get focused enough not to be distracted by your own exhaustion or recently worries about the man with his arms wrapped tight around you. Even though you tried hard, your weariness won over and you began to get sleepier and sleepier the more you had to drone on. Some of your words slurred together, broken apart only by a long yawn. Once again, you'd never really been one to find books all that entertaining. 

Behind your ear, Brahms demanded you read louder. A long sigh escaped you as you hung your head. 

"I'm...trying, Brahms...sorry." 

_God_ , what you wouldn't give for a coffee right now to force yourself awake. Your eyelids felt heavy. Letting out another sigh before continuing on the best you could, hoping you could at least get through a chapter to satisfy him. You leaned back against him, head against his white cheek, the uncomfortable stiffness leaving your muscles as the book was gripped less and less in your hands.

Your voice faded off when you finally fell asleep on top of him. The book itself slid out of your hands and to the ground. Strangely enough, Brahms doesn't...mind. It was like you falling asleep on him made up for the lack of reading. He knew he could have been a real pain in the ass, remind you who was in charge, remind you that he gets whatever he wants but...this is better than any book. 

Tentatively as to not wake you, he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you tighter into his chest so you weren't jostled as much when he shifted position to lay down on the sofa, making himself comfortable beneath you. You shifted in your own sleep on top of him, turning so your cheek was pressed to his chest and the back of the sofa supported your back more. Watching you nuzzle into his chest made him feel like he was melting inside, and he couldn't help but get his hands on your, slowly stroking up your back. 

His fingers made their way into your hair, curling around the tangled locks absentmindedly as he leaned his head back and shut his own eyes. 

This was everything to him. This was bliss.


	7. PLEASE

* * *

tw for physical abuse

* * *

When you slowly came to, Brahms was still beneath you. Softly, his chest moved up and down beneath your head and one of his hands grasped at your back while the other was back behind his head in a stretch. Your head tilted slightly as you listened to his breathing. Seemed like he wasn't faking. You don't know why he would be in the first place. You're paranoid, obviously, because of what you're about to try and pull off. 

Slowly, as stealthily as you could, you began to shift on top of him. You reached back to move his hand to the side of the sofa, eyes darting from his hand to his shut eyes, expecting them to blink open at any moment. Luckily, they didn't. A sigh of relief left your lips as you untangled your legs gently from his and stretched them to the side, towards the ground. Your teeth dug into your cheek as you lifted yourself off of him, standing up straight off to the side of the couch. In his sleep, Brahms let out a bit of a soft groan, his fingers twitching faintly at his side. 

It was the perfect opportunity to get the fuck out. You were in too deep with this guy, and if you didn't try to escape now, you didn't think you'd ever get a chance this good again. He didn't realize yet that you were planning to leave, but you knew if you waited any longer, he'd be able to tell there was something wrong--he'd be able to tell what you were thinking. And if you waited longer and he realized that you were looking for a better chance to leave, one definitely wouldn't come, because he'd become even more possessive and guarded. Less likely to slip up like he was doing right now. 

There was no better chance. This was it. This could either go terribly right for you or wonderfully wrong. 

Every little noise seemed amplified as you crept to the front door. You checked slowly to see that it was unlocked. It was. You let out a silent sigh of relief before heading back up the stairs, glancing back and down every other step or so to make sure Brahms wasn't behind you. By the time you finally got to the second floor, your heart was pounding in your chest from nervousness.

Hands shaking, you went into the room you'd spent the last few nights sleeping in. The sheets and covers were still undone from nights previous. You searched for a clean change of clothes--something you'd brought back with you from the store. Had Brahms moved them or taken them? That wouldn't make sense considering he probably would have liked them better if you'd already worn them. Creepy? Yes. But you knew him that well already and his obsession wasn't exactly secret. 

Eventually, you found an oversized shirt and another pair of sweatpants. You draped them over your arm, trying to think of anything else you should probably bring. Your free hand went to the water bottle set on the nightstand. Yeah, that should do it. The less weighing you down, the better. 

You froze when you heard old floorboards creaking under brisk footsteps. Ones that you recognized.

"Fuck," you murmured under your breath as the door opened wider, revealing a drowsy looking Brahms. 

He would have been cute, all sleepy and barefoot standing there, if it wasn't for the fact that you were terrified of him. Brahms suddenly stiffened up after taking in the room and you and the way you were looking at him. You knew it didn't matter what you said now to appease him. He _knew_. Somehow he knew. There were a thousand lies you could have told. But it wouldn't matter. 

The temperature in the room seemed to drop. 

"No..." he said softly, his voice raspy and low from sleep and disuse. 

Worth a shot.

"I'm just going for...a walk. I'll be right back." You instantly hated yourself for even _trying_ to lie to him. It must have shown in your face, in the slight wince in your expression and the flinch in your body as he suddenly came closer.

He spoke again, using his real voice. "You're lying. You're lying to me." Somehow it seemed to get even deeper, probably with anger. As he came closer and closer you became less and less sure about your own safety. Quickly, you held your hands up, shrinking back from him.

"You're right, you're right, Brahms," you said quickly, panicking, your shoulders hunching as you flinched away from him harshly when he went to grab you. 

Brahms' voice shook. Not with...fury...it sounded more like he was about to cry. "You...you said..." 

You inhaled sharply, once again shying away from another attempt of his to touch you. Every time you shrugged away from him to avoid his hand, it looked as if he was wounded and hurt. Like you'd taken a gun and pointed it at him and pulled the trigger yourself. 

"Please don't leave me..." a whine escaped him, his voice breaking towards the end. His hand was frozen and hovering over your arm, unable to touch you as his head bowed, the nose of his mask nearly touching yours. 

Shaking, you tried to find your own voice. "Brahms," you started, trying to sound stern, hoping you could take control of the situation if you feigned enough confidence to make him back down, "I told you that I was only staying here until I found another place to go." You bit the inside of your cheek, your eyes darting to a wall and the back to his dark, tearful eyes. "A-And I found a place." Another lie, obviously, but one you were hoping you could sell. 

Brahms sank to his knees suddenly, grabbing at your legs, fingers pressing deep into your thighs and dragging down to grip at your calves as he cried, hard, behind the mask. It was such a pathetic sight it was hard to not let the twinge of pity in your heart turn into consuming guilt. Because you knew that's what he wanted. He wanted to guilt you, to make you feel pity and...and it was fucking working. With every anguished cry he let out, your heart seemed to twist a little more.

He was manipulating you.

And you weren't surprised to know that. 

You swallowed thickly, still trying to keep your voice steady. "I have to go now," you said firmly. You went to move your leg from his grip. His hands tightened and you bit the inside of your cheek briefly. "I could visit you again one day, though," you added, hoping it would convince him to let go. "I promise I will." 

Some hope. 

He sobbed harder, burying his face into your leg, dark curls tickling against your skin. "I don't care, I don't care!" He was on the verge of a complete meltdown. If it got any worse it could potentially turn into one of his infamous, very violent tantrums. And there was nothing you could do to stop it except to give him what he wanted--to stay with him. Which was out of the question. "You can't leave me..." Brahms choked out, looking up at you desperately. "The rule...the rules say-"

You shook your head, quick to shut him down. "I said I would follow the rules as-as long as I'm living here, Brahms. But I'm not living here anymore. I..." you had to avert eye contact to stop yourself from tearing up as your voice softened. "I want to go home, Brahms." Your heart was aching again. Knowing there was no home for you to go to. Finally realizing that what you'd gotten yourself involved in might have been worse than hell. It might have been worse than what you'd been trying to escape from in the first place...

At least your ex-boyfriend hadn't beat people to death in front of you. 

Brahms shook his own head, clearly in his own denial. "This is your home," he snapped suddenly. Upon seeing your scared expression, he took a few trembling breaths. He wouldn't break eye contact with you. A sudden fake sweetness coated his accented voice. "You can stay forever with me." His hands tightened even more around your calf, shifting up it slightly. "You can stay _forever_." 

You could only feel relief. Not at his offer. But at the realization that not even for _one_ second did you want to accept it. You shook your head 'no'. But you couldn't bare to look at him any longer, all pitiful on the floor, staring up at you with wanting eyes. 

"Oh, Brahms..." you sighed softly. You knew you shouldn't have, but you reached down, tangling your fingers within his curls. He pushed up into your touch, shutting his eyes as you stroked through his hair. "I'm so sorry," you told him. "I really am."

It must have taken him a few seconds to realize you weren't apologizing for trying to leave. You were apologizing because you were still going _through_ with it. Still, he didn't have enough time to readjust his grip tighter on your leg. While his guard was still lowered, you broke your leg lose of his grip, stepping away quickly from him, your fingers leaving his hair.

You didn't look at him. Not even as he screamed upon that floor with his entire chest, fists clenched in a rage unlike you'd ever witnessed before. It scared you, but you didn't dare run. You walked slowly past him, to the agape bedroom door. He'd imagined his howling would make you turn around. He thought it would make you come back to him. But it didn't. You were dead set on leaving, no matter how much your heart continued to ache at the sound of his piercing screams and sobs. Your shaking hand touched the door handle to open it wider in order to go out.

Brahms had gotten to his feet while your back had been turned to him. He was faster than you thought. Your muscles stiffened as he wrapped his arms around you from behind, one around your neck and one around your chest. You expected him to start yanking you back--you got ready to fight him off. But he didn't. Brahms simply stood there with you, holding your body tightly, crying silently into your shoulder.

You couldn't stop your own tears from finally falling.

"Please, please, please, let me go, please, Brahms," you begged him softly. Your voice was beginning to break, bad, betraying your emotions. 

It was almost scary how he echoed your words, taking your own vulnerability and using it to make himself look even more needy and desperate and making you feel even more heartless. His tears were even more apparent in his voice. "Please, please, please...you can't leave me. Please don't leave me...please." 

If he wasn't pinning your arms to your side with the position he had his arms in around you, your hands would have been to your face in an attempt to hide your contorting facial expressions. You gasped and then inhaled sharply, trying to get air into your lungs between harsh sobs. You trembled in his grip as he held you tighter and closer, nuzzling into your cheek lovingly, and once again...so desperately. 

"Please," he whispered out again. "...Please I love you. I love you." He was struggling to pick a voice, flipping between his child's voice, his regular voice, and the raspy, confused middle ground in between, like he couldn't figure out what would be the most convincing. 

You could have sworn your heart broke into just then. "Don't say that, Brahms. Don't say tha-at." You couldn't hold back your sob as you nearly collapsed into him. You didn't know why those simple words were enough to make you feel like you'd been completely gutted. "You don't love me. Brahms, you don't love me." 

You didn't know how it was possible but he held you tighter, his grip almost suffocating. One of his hands pressed to your cheek, keeping your head to his. It was like he was trying to prove you wrong. 

"Brahms, you don't love me," you gasped out. "You don't even know my _name_."

An embarrassing truth you'd thought about once or twice during your time with him. But one that you thought could dismantle his argument. But his whisper came firm and stubborn into your ear. 

"I. Still. Love. You." 

Too much. This was all too much. 

You broke out of his grip suddenly, with strength you didn't know you had. He was quick to try and grab at you again. You fell to the ground in an attempt to escape him, crawling out the door before scrambling to your feet and bolting down the hall. He could have run after you then. He could have caught you. But he paused to turn towards the end of the bed, grabbing the pipe he abandoned the previous nights before. Blood was still dried on it. 

His screams echoed from the hallway as you reached the top of the stairs. You gripped the rail, making the mistake of looking back to see if he was coming. 

"Come back! Come **back here, right NOW!"** he shouted as he came at you, pipe gripped tight in his hand. 

This was it. Everything you had predicted and been scared of. Everything you had ultimately been right about. Brahms finally turning a violent, enraged hand on you. He didn't look as though he was actually going to use it on you, but the threat was still very real in the moment. For a few moments, you attempted to dodge his grabs and wrestled his arms and hands away from your body. Somehow, you ended up at an awkward angle--his hand wrapped around your upper arm, the hand with the pipe raised while one of your own hands gripped at that wrist to keep it from coming down on you. Your other hand had a fistful of his hair. With all of your weight, you let out a cry as you tried to throw him off of you. He ended up colliding into you, sending you both tumbling down the stairs.

A low moan of pain escaped you as your forced your eyes open, desperate to get the upper hand. If you could get up before he did, you might be able to make it to the door. You blinked, trying to make the room stop spinning around you. Brahms was off to your side, his pipe a few feet away from his outstretched hand. Was he out cold? You couldn't tell and you were't sticking around to find out. 

You crawled a few feet away before getting to your shaking feet. You heard the sound of pipe rolling on ground and didn't even turn around to look. You knew that he was still conscious. He was still holding on. Still, you started towards the door, a slight limp in your step. Seemed like the fall had irritated your bad leg from the car accident again. 

Brahms lunged at you from behind, a low growl coming from him.

You heard the sound of the pipe against your bad leg before you even felt it. A sickening, _horrible_ crack. A scream of pain ripped from your throat as you collapsed to the ground. Frustration filled what little space the agony hadn't taken up in your brain. Back on the fucking floor _again._ You felt his hands at your legs, grabbing vainly at you as he tried to drag you back towards him. You began to sob as his hands crept up to your waist. 

As he stood up, he brought you up with him, ragged, heavy gasps sounding behind cracked porcelain. The fall down the stairs had further damaged his mask. Brahms threw you over his shoulder. Coming out of your painful daze, feeling nothing but fury, your raked your nails up his back, trying to get him to drop you. But Brahms didn't even react. He simply squeezed you tighter as he began to move towards a wall.

When he went to duck inside of a hidden passageway, you grabbed at the side of the opening, yanking yourself forward as hard as you could. It was enough to rip out of his grip and fall off his shoulder. You hit the ground again, hard. Your arm broke your fall and you hissed with pain, but your adrenaline compelled your forward, even with your vision going black for a good few seconds. All you knew was you had to get the _fuck_ away from him. Brahms lunged towards you in an attempt to grab you again. All he managed to do was grasp at the ends of your hair, pulling a few painful strands from your head. It was a small sacrifice for the rest of you to get away from him. 

You wished your adrenaline rush had lasted longer. As you drew nearer to the door, your leg hurt worse and worse and you once again found yourself falling back into a limp. It wasn't possible to keep up your speed, and you began to inevitably slow down. 

Brahms' arms wrapped around you, and you felt metal against your throat. Not the blade of a knife, but his familiar, faithful choice in weapon--his pipe. He applied pressure as he slowly dragged you back from the door. He was trying to choke you out, you realized, as he pulled you back into the walls. The harder you struggled the harder he pulled the pipe up against your throat. 

So you stopped. 

"Brahms, please," you choked out, tears streaming down your cheeks, your fingers gripped desperately at his arms. 

He hesitated. Jut the tiniest bit. For the slightest of moments.

You took the opportunity to suddenly elbow him as hard as you fucking could, right where his healing stab wound was. Brahms let out a shriek of pain and his grip loosened. Just enough for you to shove the pipe away and duck out from underneath it. You turned around instead of immediately trying to run again. It was risky, but you had an idea. Once again, full force, you shoved him further into the passageway, hard enough that he stumbled back and lost his balance. 

It bought you enough time to run out of the passageway once again. This time, you actually made it to the front door. His screaming fell on deaf ears. Your pounding blood drowned him out. But you knew he was angry. You knew he was threatening you as your hand went to the ornate door handle. Your eyes narrowed and your mouth set in a thin line as the remainder of your tears dripped from your jaw and down onto the floor. You opened the door.

Brahms shrieked somewhere behind you, once again beginning to cry and sob like he had before upstairs, somehow louder. 

" **PLEASE,"** he wept, " **STAY, PLEASE! I'LL DIE WITHOUT YOU, I'LL DIE! I'LL KILL YOU IF YOU LEAVE!"** He broke off into another series of dramatic sobs. 

Hand still on the handle, door still open, you looked back at the man in the moon white mask, tears once again in your own eyes. He had your attention again. He seemed to perk up momentarily before once again shrinking back in an attempt to look pitiful and harmless. Something your aching leg and bruised throat heavily contradicted. 

His voice was quiet and raspy again, maybe from screaming and sobbing and threatening you so loudly. "I-If you stay, I'll be good. I promise I'll be good," he told you between heavy breaths. He nodded rapidly, like he was agreeing with himself. He was bold enough to step forwards in your direction. "I'll be good. And then you can be happy with me again. We...we can be happy together, love..." He offered a hand out to you. For a moment, you stared at it. Before your gaze drifted to his other hand, still gripping the pipe tightly. 

You shook your head. 

Desperation filled his voice again. "Please... _please_ I love you..."

He lost you. 

You stepped through the doorway and closed the door behind you. For a moment, you pressed your back up against it, wondering if he'd try to open it. The handle didn't even move. And all you could hear was his wailing coming from inside the house. 

It was the saddest sound in the world. Enough to almost tempt you into turning around and going back inside. 

But you didn't.

You took in a shaking, deep breath, rubbing at the last of the tears, drying them from your face. It didn't matter anyways. It was raining pretty hard outside. You stepped off the porch and began to walk, wrapping your arms tightly around yourself, your head bowed. 

The darkness of the night and the storm seemed to swallow you whole as you limped down the empty road, clenching tighter at your throbbing arm. The rain poured down on you like never before. 

Like the grief of the man you'd just abandoned. 


End file.
